Christmas -2012

“How silently, how silently,

The wondrous gift is giv’n!”

Preaching on a day like Christmas, the Nativity of the Lord, is both exhilarating and frightening. Exhilarating, because the feast is filled with joy and hope. No matter what our life circumstance somehow, on Christmas, we are able to set aside our concerns and disappointments and in some measure enter into the meaning and mystery of the feast. Even if life is difficult at the moment, memories of the joys of Christmas past often sustain us.

Preaching today is also frightening, even for the most seasoned of pastors. Why? Because expectations are so high. Everyone is hoping to hear a word that will encourage, a word that will direct, a word that will sustain and give reason for renewed hope in a world that sometimes disappoints, a world that we know all too well is far from perfect. And so what is a preacher to do? Well, I know what this preacher does. He simply shares what has been the insight, the word, the message that he has heard in his own heart with the hope that said word will speak to you as well.

This year, as ironic as it may seem, on a day when words like “gloria” and “triumphant” punctuate our liturgy, the word that most speaks to me is: silence.

Remember, there were no roving reporters wandering the streets of sleepy Bethlehem looking for a story. Joseph did not have a cell phone to call the relatives back home in Nazareth to tell them Mary have delivered a son in, of all places, a cave in royal David’s city. The shepherds were not texting and tweeting the local herdsmen to tell them a child had been born. No, the humble birth of this child, born under the most incomprehensible of circumstances,  happened in silence.

Oh, decades later, after they understood the significance of this marvelous birth, Luke and Matthew would retell the story, adding  shepherds and angels, wise men and census takers and innkeepers to help the reader, you and me, understand that something earth-shattering, something history-making, had happened when God broke through in human history and gave the world his son as savior. But that night, that first Christmas night, was a night when, as the carol tells us, the wondrous gift was giv’n in silence in one of the stable-caves surrounding Bethlehem.

God never imposes himself on anyone. Despite his great love and will that all be drawn to him, you and I are never forced, never coerced to submit to God’s desire that we be one with him. The choice is always ours. And so a silent birth in a sleepy back-water village, far from the center of the hustle and bustle of Jerusalem or the imperial majesty of Rome, seems most appropriate and most consistent with God’s way of inviting his own to deeper union with him. 

Remember, the angel Gabriel did not appear to Mary at the Nazareth well in full view of the jar-toting women of the village who had gathered there, to invite her, who had found favor with God, to give birth to a son who would be called Jesus who would be given the throne of David his father. The angel Gabriel spoke to Mary in the silence of her heart. Traditional paintings show Mary at prayer when the angel arrives, not in temple or synagogue, but in the protected garden of her parent’s home, an enclosed garden that symbolized her virginity.

Remember, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph inviting him to take Mary as his wife, not in his woodworker’s shop within ear-shot of the gossiping men of his village. The angel appeared to him in the quiet of a sleepy dream where the heavenly message was heard only by this just man.

That is how God works, that is how God invites, that is how God beckons his beloved to deeper union; not in the frenzied activity and drama of our lives, but in the quiet moments when we make time for silence in the middle of the busiest of days; when we finger the rosary beads and mediate on the mysteries of our faith rather than channel-surf through life looking for the most exciting, the most outrageous, the fastest, the best of whatever that can only promise to distract us from the stuff of real living. When the company goes home, when lights are low, when dishes are done, when mountains of wrapping paper are totted to the trash or even saved for another season of gift-giving, in those quiet moments - that is when we should expect our God to speak to us, even as he spoke to Mary in her secluded garden or to Joseph in the privacy of his bed chamber.

On a day feast like Christmas, what we proclaim and sing and herald publicly in song and worship, only has meaning when it emanates from the quiet chamber of our hears, that sacred space where God speaks to us not in words of grandeur but in the silence of love.

So enjoy the chatter of the family gathered around the Christmas table; sing along with the carols you love; play with your sugar-saturated grandchildren and even converse with your craziest uncle. But find time too, when shadows lengthen and lights begin to twinkle, to listen to the silence of this feast. And in that silence hear the voice of your God speaking once again the word that is his son, the son who is your brother, the son who is your friend, the son who is begotten of the father but born in time, our time, the time that is measured in the silent beating of our hearts.

 

 

Fourth Sunday of Advent

The Visitation – Climbing the Mountain of Faith

Finally, the Fourth Sunday of Advent! Enough of this talk about the second coming of Christ at the end of time. Enough of hearing the bellowing of John the Baptist in the desert calling us to repentance. I don’t know about you, but I am ready for the Christmas story. And I want to hear that story in the coming days, told over and over again; the story, as the evangelist says, of “how the birth of Jesus came about.” The church does not disappointour longing for Christmas today. We hear the prophet Micah extolling the virtue of sleepy Bethlehem, the tiny, out of the way village that produced mighty King David and would host the birth of the Messiah. We hear the story of the Visitation - Mary visiting her kinswoman Elizabeth after offering her “fiat” to God by way of the angel Gabriel, agreeing to cooperate with the plan of the Father for the birth of his son.

The Gospels do not tell us where Elizabeth and her husband, the priest Zachariah lived. Luke says only that Mary went in haste to a town in the hill country of Judah. But since the third century and the time of Saint Helen, mother of the Emperor Constantine, that hill town has been identified as “Ein Karen,” another sleepy town in what is now a suburb of the modern city of Jerusalem. Like Bethlehem, it is a tiny village which today is home to a colony of artist who find inspiration in its beauty and in the quiet away from the hubbub of noisy Jerusalem.

Since the time of Helen there has been a church in Ein Karem where pilgrims can commemorate the meeting of Mary and Elizabeth – that wonderful story that gives to our prayer life both the “Hail Mary” and the “Canticle of Mary.” The most recent church was built in the 1950’s by the Franciscans of the Holy Land who care for this most sacred spot. And like most of the major churches in the Holy Land, it was designed by the Italian architect Antonio Barluzzi. Barluzzi had a distinct style. He not only designed churches which tell the gospel story, he also designs churches which convey the “feeling” of the story. For example, he designed the Church of All Nations in the Garden of Gethsemane. Using alabaster windows the church has a glowing purple light that conveys the feeling of sadness we associate with Jesus’ Agony in the Garden. He designed the church in the Shepherd’s field in Bethlehem to look like a Bedouin tent.

 The most distinctive feature of the Church of the Visitation is that it hangs precariously on the side of the Judean hill; it is not a convenient church to visit. A pilgrim must climb the hill to pray at this sacred sight. There are no escalators or elevators. Foot power is the only way for a longing pilgrim to stand on this sacred spot and hear the voice of Elizabeth echoing down the corridors of time: “Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”

Perhaps that is most appropriate. When we think about the events associated with the birth of Jesus we tend to remember those events as if they were following a neat little pattern outlined by the mysterious plan of God; everything falls neatly into place. That might be a proper perspective from our vantage point in history. But as the events were happening there was no blueprint or program the players were able to follow. Mary and Elizabeth and Joseph and Zachariah cooperated with a plan of God they could not foresee and could not understand. Rather, they had to say their “yes” to God’s mysterious ways and then proceed to climb the path along the side of the hill that lead to the birth of Jesus, a path that was often cold and dark, a path that was had so many twists and turns most often they could not see their destination, where it was that God was leading them.

 

It reminds of receiving a gift that says “some assembly required.” Most times that “some assembly” requires hours of work and an engineering degree. When Mary and Joseph and Elizabeth and Zechariah received the gift of being asked to cooperate with the plan of God for the birth of his son, there was lots of assembly required. They had to walk by faith along a path that often brought confusion, ridicule, and misunderstanding sometimes by those who were closest to them. Mary and Joseph were assumed to have violated the terms of their betrothal when it was discovered Mary was with child before she and Joseph lived together. Zechariah was questioned when he broke with tradition and in obedience to the command of the angel he called his son John, even though none of his relatives had that name.

The players in the story of the birth of Jesus have much to tell us about responding in faith. The “yes” we say to the mysterious plan of God does not present us with a four lane highway speeding us forward to a seen destination without inconvenience or detour. No, most often our “yes” uttered in faith finds us like Mary and Joseph and Elizabeth and Zechariah climbing a mountain path where the top of the mountain is hidden from our sight. Our life’s journey, traveled in faith, is often like the darkened streets of sleepy Bethlehem, where hopes and fears come together and we put one foot in front of the other uncertain where this God of ours is leading us.

As we celebrate this season it is good for us to remember that the warmth we associate with the radiant beams emanating from the child Jesus’ holy face was born of a world of darkness and cold. The woman who went in haste to a hill town of Judah traveled most of her life blindfolded, unable to see how the plan of God, to which she had consented, was unfolding before her. The just man Joseph, agreeing to take Mary as his wife, would spend his life in silence; remember the gospels do not record one word uttered by this just man; he truly was a silent partner in God’s plan for salvation.

In the days ahead, as Christmas angels and morning stars proclaim the holy birth, we pray that like Mary and Joseph, Elizabeth and Zechariah, when our life is uncertain,  we will look at the child born in Bethlehem and remember: no ear may hear his coming, but in this world of sin, where meek souls will receive him the dear Christ enters in.

GAUDETE SUNDAY

16 December 2012

I must tell you that it is a challenge to preach today. Not because this is the first time I am preaching in almost two months because of my recent illness; but rather because I love this third Sunday of Advent, Gaudete Sunday, Rejoicing Sunday. But this year I do not feel like rejoicing.

I love the entire Advent season with its beautiful, haunting hymns, its gradual lighting of the Advent wreath leading us the Birth of Jesus, the light of the world. And I especially love this Gaudete Sunday – with its subtle rose colored vestment moving us from somber purple telling us we are one step closer to the feast we anticipate with longing hearts. I have been looking forward to preaching the message the prophet Zephaniah proclaims with great boldness and certitude: Shout for joy, O daughter Zion! Sing joyfully, O Israel! Be glad and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem! You have no further misfortune to fear.

No further misfortune to fear? Really, Zephaniah? Perhaps you did not foresee the events of a brisk, soon to be winter, December 14 in a sleepy Connecticut town. I have to ask you, Zephaniah, would you take the pulpit at the parish church of Saint Rose of Lima in Newtown this weekend and dare to say to the faithful gathered in shock and grief “you have to further misfortune to fear?”

I know I would not. Because the truth is, Zephaniah, we have much to fear. Our experience tells us that there are misfortunes we cannot even imagine that seem to lurk just beyond the horizon, ready to disloge us from our security and comfort; misfortunes that shatter our dreams, misfortunes that break our hearts, misfortunes that leave us tearful, speechless, alone,  heads and hearts spinning with doubt even though as are told we are to walk by faith and not by sight.

I have been wrestling with all of this, Zephaniah, for the past 24 hours. And the only conclusion I can reach, O might prophet, is that you live in a different world. You hear the beat of a different drummer. You see things no one else can see. You touch a reality that seems to be just beyond our grasp when we awaken to a day like Friday, our minds wandering aimlessly as we look for a home base, where we can rest for awhile, catch our breath, get our balance and renew our strength before we take another step in the journey that is our uncertain lives.

I must tell you, Zephaniah, that the only resolution I can find for all of this is not a happy one. Because it is a resolution that challenges me to not hold on so tightly to this world and to join you in that other world where prophets seem to wander. It is a resolution that challenges me to turn off the disturbing sounds of the here and now and listen with you to that different voice that speaks words of peace and forgiveness, words that are, to be honest, out of sync with what I am really feeling. It is a resolution that challenges me to stop grasping for a security that is measured in worldly terms and allow myself, like you O mighty prophet, to grasped by the one who reaches through time and space to guide me to a place we call eternity, a place, a mindset well beyond my imagining.

Or to put it in the context of the season, the challenge of Zephaniah is to understand that “rejoicing” is not measured by the hanging of another strand of twinkling lights or by toasting with yet another glass of eggnog.  The challenge of Zephaniah’s rejoicing is this: to move beyond the cave of Bethlehem where we ooh and aah at the Savior’s birth, and travel instead to the hill of Calvary where the babe in a manger has grown to a man of full stature; a man who on the cross embraced our pain, our uncertainty, our misfortune all the while providing us a vision of a place where rejoicing happens not over the “stuff” of this world. Rather, the rejoicing of Zephaniah happens when we allow ourselves to be grasped by the outstretched arms of the crucified one and begin to see the world with his eyes allowing our hearts to beat in tune with his own heart pierced with a lance.

I might say it this way as well – and I find myself saying it often both to you and to myself. The challenge of the Christian life is to acknowledge that this ain’t heaven yet. In heaven there is no shooting of 26 innocent people. No grieving parents. The Christian life, the life of discipleship, the life of faith, challenges me to stop expecting this place, this time, to be heaven, to be perfection, to be the world I want it to be.

There is a great deal of talk in our church these days today about the “new evangelization” – the effort we must make to preach the gospel anew. And so pope’s twitter and bishop’s blog all in an effort to get the word out there, And all of that is well and good. But the truth, as I see it, is that the word, the good news, is not very appealing to the world today.

Our world wants answers but discipleship often raises more questions than it answers – think of the events of Friday.

Our world wants comfort and security, but the gospel offers the cross.

 Our world wants to be loved and accepted, but the words of Jesus tell us that like him when we live the gospel and speak its truth we will be rejected by many.

Our world wants to find “closure” to events like those in Newtown, or Columbine so that we can get on with life and begin once again to live a comfortable, secure existence.  But the gospel tells us that in this life we will have to embrace our pain, and, like Mary, carry much sorrow in our hearts. Even in the cave of Bethlehem, when the wise man presented her son with myrrh, the bitter perfume foreshadowing his passion, Mary knew this ain’t heaven yet.

I hope you understand that I am not saying this life is joyless, unhappy, destined for doom. No, I am not saying that at all. Here and now there is much that is good and true and beautiful that must and should be celebrated with great rejoicing. But what we see and hear and hold in our hands in this world is intended to lead us to a greater goodness and a greater truth and a greater beauty beyond what this world can comprehend.  That is what Zephaniah rejoicing is all about.

There if more beyond the horizon, but it is given to us as promise; there is a beauty that will be revealed but first our earthy sight must be replaced with replaced with a heavenly vision at the end of our days; there is a goodness we will know that cannot be defined by human wisdom and reasoning, but it is a goodness known only when we see God face to face.

 Zephaniah rejoicing tells us not to be held captive by the limitations of the here and now. Zephaniah rejoicing says do not get stuck in the world we can see and hear and feel; Zephaniah rejoicing challenges us to lift our heads and see and hear and feel what God has ready for those who love him.

Zephaniah rejoicing tells a sleepy Connecticut town and a sleepy Pennsylvania town to hold onto the God who walks with us through this present pain and uncertainty; a God who and allows us with his eyes, his wisdom, to see a vision not of what has been but a vision of what will be when we see him face to face. Not here and now in a heaven of our making; but a heaven that will be in that kingdom he has prepared for us from the foundation of the world.

The hymn of the season recognizes that this ain’t heaven yet. The hymn of the season is for every Newtown experience of our life. The hymn of the season promises Zephaniah rejoicing.

O come, O come Emmanuel. And ransom captive Israel. That mourns in lowly exile here. Until the Son of God appear. Rejoice, rejoice, O Israel, shall come to you Emmanuel. Come, Lord Jesus.