Water Marks: Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

*This sermon was preached on the Sunday after Epiphany, January 8, 2012 at Zion Mennonite Church, Hubbard, Oregon.

The oldest known baptistery, constructed around the year 232 AD, was uncovered alongside the Euphrates River at Dura-Europos, once a Roman outpost located in modern Syria. It is located within the home of an early wealthy Christian and is the oldest known building used as a Christian meeting place. It probably accommodated 50-70 worshippers. The baptistery is an open pool surrounded by images. Around the baptistery are frescoes of Adam and Eve, David and Goliath, and the earliest images of Jesus as the Good Shepherd, healing of the paralytic, walking on the water with Peter, and three women at Christ’s tomb. We can see how visuals and art played a key role in the worship of the early church.

If you were one of those baptized in that ancient baptistery, as a catechumen you would have had to sit at the feet of an episcopos or overseer for three years of instruction and examination in preparation for becoming part of that house church. If your vocation was an actor, a government official, a gladiator, or a soldier you would have been immediately turned away from baptism. A clear and certain break from your pagan world was required. Many nights would have been spent before the golden glow of an oil lamp instructed in what it means to live as a Christian, as well as learning the basics like the Lord's Prayer and the Apostle's Creed. Your moral life would be thoroughly examined to see if you were truly breaking free from the surrounding pagan culture. At the weekly Sunday assemblies you would have been able to sit through the service of the Word, but excused when communion was about to be served.

When the day of your baptism approached, most often at sunrise on Easter Sunday, your stomach would probably be growling from fasting on Good Friday and Holy Saturday. Your skin might be wrinkled from various washings and bathings. The darkening sky of Easter eve would have found you once again before the glow of lamps attending an all-night vigil of scripture reading and instruction. The first rays of sun on Easter morning would have warmed you as you walked through the colonnaded courtyard of the Roman home and entered the room where the baptistery was located.

As the cock crows, there you are in the room set aside for baptism. Your eyes fall upon the sparkling baptismal waters with an image of Christ, the Good Shepherd watching over you from above and Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden reminding you of your own sins and brokenness. The episcopos intones a blessing over the clear, rippling water. The aroma of sweet smelling oils floats through the room. You are invited to disrobe, to shed the garments of your old life like a snake sheds its skin. Then, you renounce Satan and his evil works as the wet sign of the cross is drawn on your forehead with warm, fragrant oil.

The cool water splashes and gurgles as you step into the baptismal pool. The leader asks you three questions of faith based upon the Apostles Creed. You respond to each saying, "I believe." With each response you are dunked under the crystal waves. Assistants hold your arms and help you out of the pool. A fresh white robe is placed upon your wet body like a new skin. You are drenched from head to toe in the waters of baptism. The assistants lead you to a large hall where the table is set with flat bread and a pitcher of wine. The assembly welcomes you with the holy kiss. You are now part of this community of Christians, who are ready to break bread and share the cup with you. You have left behind the world you once knew as you stepped out of the baptismal room. You have a new identity. Christ is your Lord. This is your new family. These are your people. You belong to God and the church. You have been marked for life.

This initiatory rite of baptism goes back to the days of Jesus. Along the Jordan River John the Baptizer was drawing crowds of people. They came to hear his fiery preaching and to be dunked beneath the murky waters as a sign of repentance, a moral about face, before God bursts through the doors of time and like a farmer separates the chaff from the wheat. Some thought John to be the Messiah, the Coming Judge. John pointed his finger to the horizon and said, "I dunk you in water. The One who is coming will dunk you in the Holy Spirit and fire!"

Though the temple had its ritual washings for purification, John's baptism was a counter ritual to the temple. His baptism "for the remission of sins" was offered as an alternative rite to those of the temple system, which needed its own purification. As the common people turned from their old lives in preparation for the coming judgment, they were marked as people identified with John and his apocalyptic message of the coming judgment.

One of those who come to be baptized by John is Jesus. He steps waist deep into the brown water with the rest of the people. By all appearances he's just one more sinner come to repent and be scrubbed clean by the Spirit. The reeds along the shore bend in the breeze. Expanding circles spread out around him from the water drops. A crane soars over the surface of the river. John dunks Jesus beneath the watery skin of the river with a splash and gurgle. The dripping of water harmonizes with the mumbling of a prayer as Jesus lifts his wet arms to the heavens. The cobalt blue sky responds to Jesus as if opening to receive his prayer. The Spirit of holiness descends upon him as when Noah's dove finally found a resting place. A thunder clap in the sky speaks, "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."

Jesus is a marked man. His baptism marks him as one identified with sinful humanity. He is one of us, wading right beside us through the murky waters of life. His baptism by John for the remission of sins and identification with sinners would prove to be an embarrassment to the early church. How could a sinless Savior be dunked in the sin-soaked waters with the rest of us? As his mission unfolds we will soon see that Jesus is not embarrassed to cavort with tax-collectors and traitors and to dine with the social outcast. Jesus will continue to be marked as a prophet of the people, a Savior of sinners, Lord of the lost.

Jesus' baptism marks him as one identified with God and God's people. Like a baby born from a watery womb and named by their parents, Jesus emerges from the baptismal waters and is named by his heavenly Parent. Jesus is declared to be God's own beloved Son. Like the kings of ancient Israel, who were anointed with oil to set them apart as exercising a special relationship between God and God's people, Jesus is anointed by the Holy Spirit to be God's representative to the people. But, this wet king will take up the towel of the Suffering Servant and rule with the basin and reign from a cross. The waters of Jesus' baptism mark his identity as one with God and God's people.

Water can leave indelible marks. Consider the rocky banks of a lake where the water has marked the rise and fall of the water level. The winter snow melts and drains off the mountains into the lake. The hot summer sun drinks up the water revealing the lines of years of the ebb and flow of the lake's changing face. Water changes whatever it contacts. I remember storing my artwork in the shower of a garage turned into a small house, where Iris and I lived while serving as youth director in my first church position. The shower had not been used for a long time and the water had been shut off. One day something happened and water backed up through the drain. Even though the water was clear, it left a permanent sign of its presence on all my artwork. Water leaves its mark.

There is another kind of water mark. You can see it on quality paper. That is, if you hold a sheet up to the light. There stamped, almost imperceptibly on the paper, is the identifying water mark of the company from which the paper was produced and the quality of the paper. The water mark identifies the paper and to whom it originally belongs. The scene of Jesus' baptism in Luke's gospel is as if the writer were holding up Jesus' life to light of God to reveal his water mark. There, almost imperceptible, hidden beneath his humanity is his identifying stamp. Holding him up to heaven's light, there is no mistaking to whom he belongs. This is God's Beloved, a servant of the people.

Our baptism is our water mark. It identifies who we are and to whom we belong. In our baptism we are named for who we truly are, God's beloved children, followers of Christ, sealed with the Spirit. Remember, when you knelt in front of the church with your head bowed. To get to that moment, you had to sit through those long, tedious catechism classes, which sometimes bored you to tears. You were a bit nervous as the day for your baptism approached. The new flowered dress or suit jacket was laid out on the bed that Sunday morning. When you got to church, you were trembling and rubbing your hands together. When the time in the service came, the pastor called you to the front. Some passage was read from the Bible and some words said that you can't remember any more. As you knelt down you heard, "I baptize you in the name..." The water streamed down your face. Everyone sitting in the pews was smiling. A firm shake of the hand. The pastor said, "We welcome brother or sister so-and-so to the congregation." Maybe the water was at a stream or in a baptismal pool, or poured over you while you knelt, like at Dura-Europos. But, wherever and however it happened, you were marked for life. You stepped into that stream of saints flowing through the ages that have claimed allegiance to Christ and were engrafted into the church.

In that simple, yet profound act of baptism, we all received our water mark. We publicly declared our identification with Christ and God's Spirit sealed us as one of God's own, stamped on our lives an indelible mark. The application of water in baptism inscribed upon us a mark, not immediately apparent, but which indicates to whom we belong. We are God's children, Christ's followers, born of the Spirit. When you hold us up to the light of God you can see our water mark. We have been marked as followers of Jesus Christ. Our baptism has stamped his life, teachings, death, and resurrection upon us. Christ is our Lord. Our allegiance is to Jesus, his way, his people. No longer is our primary identity one of belonging to the people that makes up our nation, our race, our political party, or even our blood family. We have been marked as members of a people from every nation, tribe, and race set apart by their baptism in the name of Jesus Christ. We have been marked for life.

Occasionally we need to be reminded that we bear an indelible water mark that shows who we truly are. When our job serves us up a cold cup of put downs; when the cacophony of voices on TV blare out at us telling us who we should be; when the flags of other allegiances begin to wave over our heads, it is good for us to take another look at our water mark and remember to whom we ultimately belong.

I once walked into entrance of a sanctuary of a Catholic church in Houston, Texas and was surprised to see a cross-shaped baptismal pool in the floor. Not only was it a delightful surprise to find it in a Catholic church, which most often practices infant baptism by sprinkling, but that this baptismal pool was located right in the entrance way of the sanctuary. Everyone who entered to worship would have to walk by the baptismal pool as they came into the building for worship. I thought it was a wonderful architectural reminder, to all those came through the church's door each week, of their baptism and the covenant they made with God and God's people.

We all need to be reminded that we have participated in a holy bath. We have been set apart as God's beloved, followers of Christ, sealed by the Spirit. We belong to God and God's people. The people sitting in the pews around you are not just friends and acquaintances. They are your family, your community, along with all those who claim allegiance to God in Christ. Remember, above all else, we are God's children. Baptized into Christ. Sealed with the Spirit. Marked for life.

The Word became flesh: John 1:1-14

Prelude to a Poem

Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ Λόγος, καὶ ὁ Λόγος ἦν πρὸς τὸν Θεόν, καὶ Θεὸς ἦν ὁ Λόγος.

The prologue of the Gospel of John differs from the infancy narratives of the gospels of Matthew and Luke. It is in the form of a poetic narrative. It is written in the language of worship more than that of theology. In essence, it is a hymn of praise to the logos, the Word, who becomes incarnate in human life. John takes us back further than Jesus’ birth to a genesis time “in the beginning.”

Since John’s prologue to his gospel is in poetic form, I would like to echo John’s literary form and share an extended original poem entitled “The Word became flesh” that I have drawn from John’s poem along with visual images that reflect its words, thus the word again becomes flesh, or should I say, icon and image.

_____________________

The Word became flesh


Jesus Christ,
where do we begin?
In the beginning,
which wasn’t a beginning.
At a time
when there was no time.
Long before the morning stars sang together.
Before God’s body
warmed the cool air of stellar space.
Before the world was hung
on invisible string
and spun like a top on its axis.
Before the seas roared in angry voice,
and the trees laughed in the wind.
Before the mountains proudly lifted their heads,
and the deserts cried out in thirst.
Long before an Unseen Hand
scooped up a batch of clay
from a muddy stream
and molded a living sculpture
that caught the breath of angels.
Before pain was etched on the brow
of a solitary face,
or a tear dropped crystalline
from a single eye.
Before the first cry was heard to burst forth
from between a mother’s legs,
or a note was plucked
upon the string of an angel’s lyre.
When the world was but an egg
incubating in the mind of God.
In the beginning.
When all there was
was silence….
and the Word.


The Word.
In the beginning
without beginning.
Eternity spinning in upon itself
and out again.
The Word was as timeless
as God,
as a clock with no hands or face.
As endless as Life.
Without lips to loose labials
or tongue to grunt gutturals.
Without teeth to sing sibilants,
or mouth to speak it into being.
The Word was.
Logos,
Theos,
Reason,
Thought,
Intelligence,
Wisdom.
Ready to communicate
Being.
Ready to speak
the first stammering,
s…s…stuttering syllables.
The Word hung on Sacred lips,
puckered
for the moment it would speak itself
into words that form sentences of reality.
Then, the silence will be broken.
The Word speaks universes, galaxies,
a tiny rotating blue orb,
and finally….
a word of skin and speech
not unlike itself….
a babbling being.


Imagine
the Word as
Woman.
Sophia.
Divine Wisdom.
She waits to woo and win the world,
even before She walks
into the room of time.
One with God,
like two peas in a pod,
twins who wear the same clothes
and think the same thoughts.
Sophia.
Over,
under,
alongside,
around,
through,
behind,
between,
with,
within,
alike,
distinct from,
yet, fully God.
Sophia.
Very God of very God.
One with the Word.
And yet, other.
As other as the babe nestled in Mary’s womb
waiting on the edge of the world
to be born.
In a word,
to be heard.


Without throat, teeth, or tongue,
the Word spoke….
And silence shattered
into a billion stars,
like broken glass
from an opera singer’s high note.


A world was expelled
by a cough from the lungs of God,
spoken into being.
Tinier than a mustard seed
caught in God’s teeth,
it was flung into space
by one able to move mountains
with the blink of an eye,
fill seas with her tears,
create canyons with her footprints,
who says “Be!”
and it is.
After speaking a six-day sentence,
the tongue of the Word rested,
then tasted what She had made
with one luscious lick.
The Word said,
“It tastes mighty good!”
And the Word became
silent….



One day in time,
in eternity
spinning in upon itself
and out again,
Adam’s hand
snapped the string that held the world.
The wobbling world
fell from Eden’s perch
with a CRASHHHH!!
and cracked like a fragile vase
from a Potter’s wheel.
In pain and anguish
the Potter spewed forth colored words
over the broken, gray world.
The words landed
on the tongues of poets and prophets,
who cried out
in the desert
of punctured promises,
wilderness wanderings,
corrupted kings,
tainted temples.
God’s tongue
tasted the nation of her choosing.
It had gone sour.
The Word kept crying out
word upon word upon word.
Holiness,
righteousness,
justice.
The stammering, stuttering Word
stuck on the same sounds,
a broken record,
playing over and over and over
for a broken world
lying on the dying floor.


From deep within the bosom of God
the Word prepared to speak
a word unlike any word
that ever fell on human ear
or rolled off prophet’s tongue.
The Word rumbled around
in the belly of God
awaiting
a mouth to speak it,
a tongue to articulate it,
a body to dance it,
a womb to birth it.
Then, the Word found
an open door into the world,
the only way to enter
the blood and bone sanctuary.


The Word became flesh.
Not like the putting on of clothing
to walk into the cold of winter.
Nor like an ancient actor wearing a mask
that displays personae and hides identity.
The Word became flesh,
vulnerable and vexed,
weak and wearied,
finite and fragile,
flesh.


Just to speak the word
grates across the tongue.
Flesssshhhh.
Paraded and pink
on long legs looking for lonely lovers,
pleasure for pay.
Flesssshhhh.
Tan and taut
as leather stretched over a cage of bones
lying on the streets of Calcutta.
Flessshhh.
Bruised and battered
by angry hands
in a home bittersweet home
where Sophia cries.
Flessshhh.
Pale and pocked
By a four-letter disease
that numbers your days.
Flesssshhhh.
Wrinkled and wormed
lying in a satin-lined box
dust to dust.


The Word became flesssshhh.
Tormented and tempted,
tried and tested,
troubled
and tight enough
to be pierced
and hung out to dry
on two crossed sticks.

The Word
packed up its heavenly tent
and moved to a new home
sweet home
in the belly, of all things
…. a virgin.
From flesh came flesh.
In a barnyard of beasts.
Pushed out onto the hard earth
like raw meat
hanging in the window of a butcher shop.
The screaming wonder
wrapped in strips of cloth,
a mummy for the tomb.
The Word entered the world
of babbling beings
unable to speak…a word.
While angels bent over the earth
silent as a whisper.

Wrapped up tight
in the humanity of that child,
a future of unborn days,
when that fine hair will glisten
with water from the Jordan river,
when those tiny hands will scoop up mud
and heal hollow eyes,
when those lips will drip words of honey
on the tastebuds of hungry ears,
when those two round eyes,
as big as worlds,
will look upon the multitudes
hungry for more than bread,
thirsty for more than wine,
longing for true communion.
The day will come when those small ears
will hear the whispers of heaven
and clothe them in words.
The Word pitched a tent among us,
stretched out the cords of a sacred temple,
nailed them down,
and made our home his home,
our sod his sod,
our God his God.
Even death,
the end of speech,
could not silence him.
The Word still speaks.


The Word that was
and is
and is to come,
is with us.
When we toss and turn
in the sheets of pain,
sit in solitude,
hold the crumbs of our future
in our trembling hands,
or when life bursts through our door
with party horns blaring
and rainbow streamers flying
curly-cue in the air,
or when sitting
on the edge of the world
watching the dying sun
paint the sky with invisible brush
colors that pale the palette of Picasso.
The Word is with us,
when little ones make their singing debut
in the maternity ward,
or when a wrinkled hand drops limp
at the side of a rocking chair
in a rest home,
sweet rest, home.
The Word still speaks
in words wrapped in the swaddling clothes
of the human .


The Word became flesh.
With human face.
Have you seen the Word?
Cardboard-sign-carrier,
broken smile,
broken spirit,
begging near the freeway off ramp.
Shopping-cart-pusher,
looking for cans in the park,
a sleeping place in the dark.
The Word with a face
seen between empty spaces
of iron bars
or at empty places
like local bars.
To miss the face,
the other,
the Word,
among the least of these,
is to stop the ears
to the sound of sacred speech,
and to end up as guilty as a goat
on judgment day.


O, Wondrous Word,
Let us see your face.
As black as night
in a Savannah swamp,
as pale as the moon
on Chesapeake Bay,
as red as mud
on an Oklahoma road,
as brown as earth beneath
Mexican sandals.
O, wonderful Word,
Will we listen for your voice
only in soaring song and silent sanctuary,
in petitioning prayer and preacher’s proclamation,
in bound Bible and believer’s bosom?
Or will we tune our ears
to listen for the Word
in the lost and lonely places,
the forgotten and forsaken places,
the marginal and manger places
of this turning orb?


The Word still speaks
from as far away as forever
or as near as a neighbor.
The Word still speaks
louder than dividing walls that fall.
Quiet as a flower budding
on April’s first birthday.
The Word still speaks
in eternity
spinning in upon itself
and out again
and in the still, small voice
of this moment….
The Word
is with us.
And we behold the glory,
full of grace and truth.
Amen.

An Ambiguous Sign: Luke 2:1-20

*This sermon was preached on Christmas Sunday morning at Zion Mennonite Church, Hubbard, Oregon. It included these pictures projected on a screen throughout the sermon. I could hardly finish the sermon as I looked out and saw a number of wet eyes among the congregation!

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight O Lord, Our Rock and Redeemer.

The scene of the nativity was a favorite among Renaissance artists. Looking at their paintings you can see how each artist tried to bring together both the human and the divine elements in the story of Christ's birth. In Hugo van der Goes' painting Adoration of the Shepherds you can see a creative interplay of the elements of heaven and earth. The artist's devotion to the natural world is seen in the spacious landscape surrounding his manger scene and the wealth of precise realistic detail. In his painting the shepherds kneel before the Christ child dressed in simple peasant robes as brown as moist dirt. These field hands gaze in breathless wonder and excitement at the newborn baby, who lies naked and almost blends into the earthen tones.

In contrast to the down-to-earth shepherds are the unearthly angels, who look on in ritual solemnity. Some kneel around the Christ child dressed as priests at high mass. A few angels fly above the manger scene in ecclesiastical robes like flies buzzing around a maternity ward window. For symbolic reasons van der Goes' angels were painted on a much smaller scale. They are dwarfed next to the shepherds, appearing to be out-of-place, foreigners in a strange land. In other paintings artists have made the heavenly dimension dominate the manger scene, with striking colors, ornate gilding, or golden halos that encircle the heads of the Madonna and child. Although van der Goes brushes in the heavenly elements, the painting's natural and human elements appear to stand out.

Isn't van der Goes' rendition of the nativity saying something symbolically that we all can affirm? Though the Sacred was there at the manger scene, it was the human elements of Christ's birth that would have stood out most clearly. Let me ask you this. If you were an artist present at that manger scene long ago and were commissioned to paint a family portrait, what do you think you would have seen; a mother and child with matching cymbals for hats? Angels in ecclesiastical robes? If you had showed up at that stall with a digital camcorder and filmed the whole thing, what do you think you would have seen when you watched the film played back over a bowl of popcorn in your living room; angels buzzing around as common as house flies? Or were the angels only seen with the eyes of faith?

As Christians, we believe firmly that heaven came down and touched the earth on that first Christmas. But what if the halos were erased from the picture and the angels were painted out, how then would we recognize that God had come among us? If no angels with wings come to us to announce the good news, then where will we hear it? What kind of signs will we look for that the Savior is among us?


Believe it or not, the good news of Christ's coming was first announced to shepherds by angels from heaven. The shepherds sat on the hillside washing their socks by night, I mean, watching their flocks by night. There was nothing particularly unusual about that evening. Nothing filled the air, except the smell of sheep. And those shepherds were not particularly subject to heavenly visions. They lived off the land. Rough-and-tumble fellows. Calloused hands. Scruffy beards. No nonsense. Real down-to-earth, hardworking kind of guys. Their business was watching sheep, not gazing off starry-eyed into the heavens.

Then all of a sudden an angel of the Lord stood before them. I can imagine their eyes bugging out an inch or two and their jaws hitting the ground with a thump. The glory of the Lord shone around them like a beam from a UFO. Those simple shepherds were scared right out of their wits. They did a double-take and rubbed their eyes awake. What would angels be doing out there among a bunch of sheep? In typical angelic language the angel said. "Do not be afraid." Sure! Don't be afraid. Ha! Like shepherds see angels every day. "See," said the messenger, "I am bringing you good news of great joy for all people." The ears of the poor shepherds perked up at the sound of good news.

"To you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord." And as if one angel were not enough to blow the brains right out of those simple shepherds, the night sky cracked open and was spangled with a flock of glittering angels praising God. Above the sound of flapping wings they sang, "Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace among those whom God favors." Wow! Chiffon angels come to burlap shepherds. The doors of heaven open in a pasture.

But in our modern age we don’t look for good news to come to us wrapped up in such heavenly form. Unlike former ages, we 1ive in a time when the halos have been erased and the angels have been painted out of the picture. Myth, story, and symbol, have all been ruled out as vehicles of truth. The supernatural has been written off as fairy tale or childish imagination. Although many would say we live in a postmodern or post-enlightenment era, I believe we still live under the long, dark shadow of the age of Enlightenment. Ours is an age still dominated by science and rationalism. The Enlightenment taught us that for anything to be true it has to be quantifiable, fit into a formula, or put under a microscope and examined with the human eye. The philosopher Descartes, father of the Enlightenment, expressed the spirit of the modern age when he said: I must avoid believing things which are not entirely certain an indubitable.

The age of the Enlightenment says that there’s nothing, nothing that we cannot doubt? If that’s the case, then why not include rationalism as one of those things that we can doubt. That is what postmodernism has done; doubt rationalism. Does everything that is true have to fit into a logical formula? Does everything have to be literal or it is not true at all? If that were the case, then those of us who see with eyes of faith would have big problems.

Sociologist Peter Berger has examined the alleged demise of the supernatural in modern secularized society in a book fittingly entitled A Rumor of Angels. The opening sentence of the book reads: If commentators on the contemporary situation of religion agree about anything, it is that the supernatural has departed from the modern world." Berger's thesis is that we live in a time when the transcendent has been reduced to a rumor.

We have all been affected by our modern rationalistic age to a great degree. I know that I have. I'm a bit skeptical of claims of the miraculous and supernatural. Granted, this is the kind of world I read about in my Bible. But, when I lift my eyes up from the supernatural world I see in the Bible, I look out on a different kind of world. Speaking as a rational person, I have to say that we, as people of God, do not live in the same kind of world that the Bible portrays. God doesn't speak from burning bushes. The seas don’t part on command. The sun doesn’t stand still. Blinded eyes don’t see with mud for medicine. The dead do not rise up from their graves. And angels do not flit about giving birth announcements to virgins. That's not the kind of world into which I was born.

Today, there may be rumors of those who say they can hear God's voice. But, personally speaking, I seem to have trouble hearing God's voice a great deal of the time. I don't know about you, but when I pray I don't hear a sound. There are no audible voices. I often wait quietly, listening for God to speak, but there is nothing but the hum of silence. I have sat alone with my feet soaking in tears, frustrated, feeling hopeless and depressed, and no angel has shown up and placed a hand on my shoulder. When I asked God to show me the way, no angel has come to me like one did to Jimmy Stewart in It's a Wonderful Life. There has never been a cloud by day or a pillar of fire by night guiding my way. I have never actually heard a Charlton Heston voice booming out: "Leo, my beloved child, go to the elders of Zion and proclaim in their hearing, ‘Behold, I will shepherd your people." Have you ever heard such a voice?

At times I have deeply longed for an experience e of the "supernatural" to happen in my life. I have prayed the pray of Isaiah that opened our Advent readings: O that you would tear open the heavens and come down. But when I raised my head and opened my eyes, all I could see was an open Bible, a broken piece of bread, a wet-faced child, a disheveled young woman wanting some food, and a struggling church. I have squinted my eyes hard looking for signs that God was at work in my life. But most often I have seen very little that might be considered "supernatural," things that could not be explained away scientifically, rationally, or psychologically. So, I tend not to look for those spectacular signs of God's presence.

Even so, I still believe with all my heart that, on occasion, I have seen God's face. I have walked with Christ. I have heard the voice of angels. But most of what I have seen with my eyes and have heard with my ears has been all too human. Maybe I'm just a product of our overly rationalistic age.

It is from within such a rationalistic age that we hear of the voices of angels, who come announcing to simple shepherds that the Christ has come. But, rationally speaking, from the viewpoint of our age it would appear that all angels have flown the coop! And the heavenly signs have been unplugged.

If that were truly the case, then where would we look for signs of Christ's presence among us? Where would we listen for the good news? Where would we experience the Holy? I read in today's Christmas story about a sign that was given to the shepherds by the angels that was to confirm the good news they heard. And when I read what that sign actually was, I was moved to silence…. You might have thought that the stereophonic symphony of glittering angels in the sky would have been the sign that Christ had come among humanity. But that was not the sign. Shhhhh! Lean forward. Listen carefully to the angel's words:


This will be the sign for you… You will find… a child wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.


What kind of sign is that? That's the sign of good news? That's the sign that Savior of the world has come? That's how God comes to us? In a frail, vulnerable baby wrapped up tight in his humanity? I was expecting something a little more supernatural, something with a little more pizazz. At least a baby with a cymbal for a hat! If I hadn't heard the word of God's heavenly messenger, I wouldn't have recognized anything out of the ordinary at the manger. Would you have? I wouldn't have seen God in that child, being without a halo and all. How about you? What kind of sign is that? A baby in a cattle trough. Maybe we just need to walk a little closer and squint little harder.

Can you see the sign? Look closer. In the darkness of the night the glow of an oil lamp creates a circle of golden light. A sweaty mother lies on the floor looking up at the rafters. She squeezes all the blood out of her husband's hand. The contractions are coming every two minutes now. They are getting harder and harder to bear. The only sounds you can hear are rapid breathing and the howl of a wolf in the distance. She inhales deep the smell of hay and cattle. Then it becomes so quiet that you can hear the feet of a mouse running across the floor.

The moment of silence is broken by a low groan. Then, onto the floor plops something that at first looks like raw hamburger. It's a baby! The mother goes limp, exhausted. Then there's a loud "Waaaaaaaaa!" The beaming father cuts the cord and ties it with a piece of old thread. Then he wraps the baby tightly with strips of cloth and lays him beside his mother.

No golden halos. No fluttering angels. No opening skies. But, there's the sign. And it is all too human. The baby’s earthen hue almost makes him blends into the hay. There's nothing very heavenly about this scene. Maybe if you just kneel and look deeply into the moist eyes of the child, you will see something. Maybe not. But, there's the sign. There's the sign of salvation, the sign of good news, the sign that the Messiah has come. A baby wrapped up tight in his humanity.

If that's the sign the shepherds were given of Christ's presence among them, then where in the world do we look for signs of Christ's presence among us? If the halos are erased and the angels are painted out, where will we find the Sacred?

This is the Gospel truth. We will find that the Christ is among us, like the shepherds, through an ambiguous sign. The truth for us is that we will find the Sacred wrapped tightly in the swaddling clothes of the human. As a confirmation of the good news that the Savior was among them, that the Lord had come, that God was in their midst, the angels gave the shepherds a sign; a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger. That was their sign; a rather ambiguous sign.
By "ambiguous" I mean that the sign could be open to several interpretations. The shepherds could have looked down at that human baby and said, "This is the Christ!" Or they could have looked down at that baby and said, "This is the Christ?" It's the same way with answered prayer. You can see it as merely a human coincidence or as the hand of God. The signs of God's presence among us always have that kind of ambiguity. They are capable of being interpreted several ways. That's because the Holy comes to us wrapped up in the human.

So, like the shepherds, we have to look for the Sacred wrapped tightly in the swaddling clothes of the human. Not wrapped like a Christmas package that you tear open to find the gift inside. As if we could tear away the humanity of that child in the manger, peel back his earthiness and find the real essence of Christ inside. No. God is there, all wrapped up tight in the human life of that child. The Sacred is wrapped up in the utterly human lives that we all live. And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us and we beheld his glory.

Trying to find Christ without the humanity of Jesus, or trying to find the Sacred without the human is like trying to find an onion by peeling away the layers of its skin. If you try to peel away the skin in order to find the onion, all you will have when you’re done will be a handful of onion skins. For the onion is in the skin. The Christ is in the baby. The Sacred is in the human. So, remember. The signs of the Sacred are always a bit ambiguous.

And though we may be Christians with a biblical memory and eyes filled with visions of heavenly things, we are still children of a modern, rational age. And at times we may want to peel away at the skin of the human and behold the Holy. We may wish we could pull back the curtain, tear open the heavens, and see God's glory directly. But if we expect to find God somewhere else except in the humanity of Jesus or expect to find the Sacred outside of our ordinary, frail, vulnerable human lives, then we may wind up with only a handful of onion peelings with tears in our eyes.

But, when we look upon life with the eyes and ears of faith we can see and hear the signs of God's presence among us. With eyes of faith we can see in the sign of a child in the manger the Savior, who is Christ the Lord. With ears of faith we can hear in the all-too-human word of Scripture the voice of God. With eyes of faith we can see the Sacred in the skin of all that is human. Angels come to us, unaware, in the guise of friends who tell us good news or as strangers at our doorstep. And believe it or not, if we squint hard enough, we can see Christ in the onion skin of this church.

Such ambiguous signs. They only become signs of God's presence when we look at them with the eyes of faith. Hidden in the very human stuff of our lives are signs that point us to the glory of God.

There you are on this Christmas morning. All wrapped up tight in your humanity. Hoping to find some sign of God's presence as you come to worship this special day. And all that you can see is an open Bible. Some burning candles. Garland and ribbon. Wooden words on a near wall, not magi from afar, proclaiming “Jesus is Lord.” All-too-familiar faces in church. All you can hear are human voices singing some old Christmas carols and a very human sermon. There are no halos. No angels. No heavenly voices. Just a bunch of ambiguous signs. And you came looking for the living and glorious Christ.

With eyes of faith look again at all the signs. They may look ambiguous. But, they point to Christ. All the signs point to Christ who has been with you all along. In worship. On the job. At play. In your home. Sitting alone in prayer. In joy and in sorrow. In sickness and in health. In life and in death. Christ has been there. Can you see that even now, right here, Christ is with us?


Can you see him? Can you hear him? Come closer. Lean forward. Kneel quietly before the tiny bundle that lies in the hay. Shhhhh. Can you hear him breathing? His warm breath fogs the morning air. His cocoa colored hands are so small and weak. His body is so vulnerable to that cold, cruel world out there. Gaze with wonder upon that bundle of life. What do you see? A baby lying in a manger all wrapped up tight in his humanity. No. More than that. This is the Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And it could have been just a stirring in someone’s heart, but didn't you hear some angels singing, "Glory be to God in the highest!?"


There is more light and truth yet to break forth from God's Holy Word.

Mary's Song of the Poor: Luke 1:46b-55

*This sermon was preached at Zion Mennonite Church, Hubbard, Oregon, on the Fourth Sunday in Advent, December 18, 2011

Howard Thurman, African-American prophet and mystic, in his book Meditations of the Heart writes:

I will sing a new song. As difficult as it is, I must learn the new song that is capable of meeting the new need. I must fashion new words born of all the new growth of my life, my mind and my spirit. I must prepare for new melodies that have never been mine before, that all that is within me may lift my voice unto God. How I love the old familiarity of the wearied melody-- how I shrink from the harsh discords of the new untried harmonies. Teach me, my Father, that I might learn with the abandonment and enthusiasm of Jesus, the fresh new accent, the untried melody, to meet the need of the untried morrow.

Some songs are old. Some songs are new. Some songs are easy to sing. Some songs are difficult to sing. Some melodies are familiar and others untried. In the gospel of Luke Mary sings a song that is both old and new. Its melody may be simple and smooth, but its words are dissonant and discordant with the tenor of our times. Her song is a familiar melody, but with a “fresh new accent.” We know Mary’s song as the Magnificat. That’s not the title of an old Disney movie. The title comes from the Latin form of the word “to magnify.” It is Mary’s song of praise to God from among the poor.

The song comes in the gospel of Luke during an encounter of Mary with her cousin Elizabeth. Mary and Elizabeth, who both receive the gift of the Holy Spirit, the favor of God, and a child of promise, represent for us the potential for a new fertile future of unexpected hope and promise. An angel has previously announced to Mary that she would conceive a child through the power of the Holy Spirit. The angel informs Mary that Elizabeth is also pregnant in her old age, an echo of the story of Sarah and Abraham. Mary hurries off on a journey to a village in the Judean hill country that probably took two or three days. She probably went to assist Elizabeth with her work of fetching water from the well, grinding corn, collecting firewood, and cooking her meals.

Upon meeting Mary the child in Elizabeth’s womb leaps for joy. Elizabeth has two visitors: Mary and the Holy Spirit. Elizabeth is filled with the Holy Spirit and says a line that anyone who has said the rosary will remember: “Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb.” Then, Mary breaks out in the song that we know as the Magnificat.

I refer to it as a song not because it was sung, but that it fits the poetic form of the Psalms, which were liturgical songs of the Hebrew people. It contains parallelisms, which are two lines that interconnect with one another. This is the most common form of Hebrew poetry. Mary’s song is very similar to the song of Hannah, the mother of the prophet Samuel, found in the book of Judges. Parallels to Mary’s song can be found in various Old Testament passages, the Psalms, intertestamental writings, and texts from the Dead Sea Scrolls at Qumran. The song presents themes from the OT and themes that will reappear on Luke’s gospel. Her song resembles the contemporary songs of the Misa Campesina or Poor People’s Mass, which I once heard in the 80’s at a gathering in San Francisco for peace and justice in Central America.

Mary’s song begins in joyful praise to God. She recognizes her lowly or humble status and how she is blessed to be so favored. For Mary is to be the bearer of the Messiah. Like a Woody Guthrie song that recalls the history of America and imagines a social transformation, Mary’s song extolls the God of Israel’s history and imagines a social revolution.

The mother of Jesus sings the song of a God who has scattered the proud and self-sufficient, toppled elite rulers from their thrones, lifted up the poor and lowly, filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away with empty hands and stomachs. These are definitely awesome deeds we do not expect.

New Testament scholar Raymond Brown sees the life setting of this song among the Jewish Christian anawim or “poor ones” of the first century. Mary’s song is a song of praise to God, the Liberator, who turns the world upside down. Though dirt poor, Mary sings a song of praise. If we recognize our own social and economic location, the God Mary praises acts against our own national and personal interests. It’s not a solo, but a song of solidarity with her people, the poor. Her song is a melody of social upheaval, a reversal of the fortunes and misfortunes of God’s people. She sings of social transformation.

We were probably expecting more of a gentle lullaby from Mary than a raspy song of economic justice. Her unexpected words remind me of the unexpected acts of Nora Nash, a sister of St. Francis in Philadelphia. Along with other nuns from her order, sister Nash sits in on the board meetings of Goldman Sachs, the world’s most powerful investment bank. They have bought the minimum number of shares in stock to be able to submit resolutions at the annual shareholders meeting. Sister Nash advices three Goldman top executives that their Wall Street Bank should protect consumers, rein in executive pay, increase its transparency, and remember the poor. These sisters were occupying Wall Street before it was fashionable for young hipsters. These sisters of mother Mary have also confronted Kroger, the grocery store chain, McDonald’s, Wells Fargo, and the Fortune 500 for unjust practices. What bodacious audacity! They sing a song with a radical vision.

Mary’s song is far more radical a vision than even that of the Occupy Wall Street movement, which focuses on the power and privilege of the 1% of the wealthy over against the 99 % of the rest of the US population. In the Occupy movement the enemy is the wealthy 1 %. Mary’s song envisions God completely overturning our economic system, flipping it on its head. If we understand Mary’s vision on a global and not simply a national level, the lyrics of her song indict not simply the 1% over against the 99 per cent in the US, but the 20% of the wealthy of the world over against the 80% of the world’s impoverished peoples. As Walt Kelly’s politically satirical comic strip character Pogo once said, “We have met the enemy and he is us!” Gentle Mary sings a radically subversive song of God’s coming revolution and we are implicated in the lyrics.

E. Stanley Jones, the early twentieth century missionary once said that the Magnificat is "the most revolutionary document in the world." It is a song that terrified Russian czars. The people of Nicaragua were once fond of reciting it. During the oppressive rule of Somoza in Nicaragua the poor campesinos were required to carry proof that they voted for him. The people sarcastically called the document, “The Magnificat.” Mary’s song is revolutionary.

Dare we, who live in the wealthiest and most powerful empire on earth, sing the song of Mary? Wouldn’t its melody sound like the sawing of the limb on which we sit? Wouldn’t its lyrics stick in our throats like a fish bone? For us singing Mary’s song is less like singing a familiar Christmas carol and more like singing an unfamiliar, dissonant song. How can we, who are the wealthy of the world, sing Mary’s song without undermining our own lifestyles, our own political, economic, national interests and ideologies? We are not simply exiles in Babylon. We are Babylon. As the Psalmist moaned in Babylonian captivity, “How can we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?” How can we sing Mary’s song in our own land?

We have sung the songs of pride and power, comfort and wealth far too long. We have sung the old familiar songs of Babylon about American exceptionalism, Battle hymns of the Republic, funeral dirges over flag draped coffins, Christmas consumerist carols, and TV commercial jingles. How do we sing Mary’s song of the poor?

We probably need a new voice, a new melody, a new perspective. Singing Mary’s song of the poor and lowly will call for a practice of reading the music identifying with the perspective of those indicted by her lyrics, those who benefit from the violence, militarism, oil hounding and hoarding, those who are comfortable with economic inequity, cheaper goods, and low pay that go with the interests of our wealthy empire, interests we most often support. It is my conviction that we white, wealthy North Americans need to read not just Mary’s song, but all of the Bible with the intentional awareness of our perspective as the dominant and privileged. Our tendency has been to too easily identify ourselves with the poor, the weak, the vulnerable, the powerless, the persecuted, the crucified. I’m convinced that the poor, vulnerable, marginalized, and oppressed have an interpretive advantage when it comes to reading the Bible rightly. They share a common identity with Mary and her people.

This tendency to easily identify with the lowly and persecuted can also be found among white, North American Mennonites, who claim a heritage of social marginalization, simple living, and martyrdom. We proudly take this identity stance when relating to other Christians or in disassociating ourselves from the power and privilege inherent in the American empire. We are the marginalized, the exilic people, the persecuted, the martyrs. But, the reality is we have pretty much assimilated ourselves into the wider culture of the American empire. We are the rich, the proud, the powerful, and the privileged, those who Mary sings God will send away empty.

So, what I’m suggesting is to begin listening to Mary’s song and reading the Bible with an intentional awareness of our hermeneutic or interpretive lens of power and privilege. By that I mean that we intentionally practice a biblical reading strategy with eyes wide open to our own place of power and privilege in the world and how that affects our reading and the practice of our faith. Then, we will begin to notice how we spiritualize words like “poor” and “rich,” how we make texts about economic justice into issues of the heart alone, how we avoid the tough texts of the Bible that challenge our lifestyles, how we squeeze the Bible message into our own national ideologies. Reading the music of the Bible with an interpretive lens that recognizes our own position in the world can teach us how to sing a new song.

This new interpretive approach will mean reading Mary’s song and identifying with those who are on the top rather than the bottom, the haves rather than the have-nots, the powerful and not the weak, the dominant and not the dominated. It will mean reading the Exodus story from the perspective of Pharoah and Egypt, reading the taking of the land of Canaan remembering our ancestors who took Native land, reading the story of exile from the perspective of Babylon, the story of Jesus, and the church’s story through the eyes of the Roman Empire. It will mean reading with new eyes, singing Mary’s song in a new key.

Can we, as Howard Thurman suggests, “sing a new song, as difficult as it is…”Reading the Bible with a keen awareness of our own power and privilege could mean singing Mary’s song as a new song with an unfamiliar melody and “untried harmonies.” At first, the notes may warble and catch in our throat. But, reading from a new perspective, from the position of power and privilege, and singing in a new key, can emerge from growth and change in our minds, hearts, and spirits. In the wise words of Thurman, we “must fashion new words (and new perspectives) born of all the new growth of my life, my mind and my spirit.”

If we can sing Mary’s song in a new key, with a new accent, from a new perspective, and be able to remain in the tension and discord, if we can sing a new song in our brokenness as a powerful and privileged people, if we can allow its melody and lyrics to permeate to the bone, we may begin to change not only or identification, who we identify with in the song, but also our identity, who we are as persons and as a people in the economy of God.

I invite all of us to listen to and sing Mary’s song of the poor as a new song, as difficult as it is. We must sing Mary’s song of praise and prophetic imagination if we are to envision a different future, a new tomorrow for our dissonant and off key world. The prophet and mystic Howard Thurman can be our director:

I must prepare for new melodies that have never been mine before, that all that is within me may lift my voice unto God… Teach me, my Father, that I might learn with the abandonment and enthusiasm of Jesus, the fresh new accent, the untried melody, to meet the need of the untried morrow.

There is more light and truth yet to break forth from God’s Holy Word

The Spirit is Upon Me: Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11; Luke 4:14-30

*This sermon was preached at Zion Mennonite Church, Hubbard, OR on the Third Sunday of Advent, December 11, 2011.

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight O Lord, our Rock and Redeemer.

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me. When I hear those words from Isaiah my immediate thoughts turn to my early charismatic experiences. When I was a 19 year old, long haired Rock musician living in Los Angeles I went to a number of events that made me think that the Spirit of the Lord might be upon me. I had an older friend, Richard Gant, from LA City College who had studied for the priesthood. He was fired up about the Catholic charismatic movement that was burning back in the 60s. Richard dragged me off all across the LA area to various monasteries, cloisters, Jesus Freak gatherings, Teen Challenge, where I met the Christian gospel singer Andre Crouch, a Kathryn Kuhlman healing service, where I was called on stage, received the laying on of hands from Miss Kuhlman, and was “slain in the Spirit,” and attended a bunch of other charismatic and Pentecostal services.

At one charismatic meeting we were coached on how to speak in tongues and pray in the Spirit. As we kneeled in prayer the Pentecostal leaders suggested we stutter out some syllables in order to “prime the pump,” as it were. I told Richard I could easily fake speaking in tongues and upon doing so had an ecstatic experience. I also remember at that time listening to a tape on the story of Pentecost Richard had lent me and all of a sudden I hearing a loud wind rush through the apartment where our Rock group lived, like it was my own personal Pentecost. Richard baptized me into the wild world of the Spirit.

Was the Spirit upon me? Had I been anointed? What was the evidence? Speaking in tongues. Receiving laying on of hands. Being slain in the Spirit. Ecstatic and auditory experiences. Are these the signs of being anointed by the Spirit?

The prophet Isaiah proclaims The Spirit of the Lord is upon me and The Lord has anointed me. The prophet’s words fit in with what is known as the Servant of the Lord tradition. These texts in Isaiah speak of a Servant of the Lord, who at times appears to be Israel and at other times a prophetic or messianic figure. This Servant is, at times, a Suffering Servant who bears the people’s sin, brings salvation, and finally inaugurates the kingdom of God.

Isaiah speaks these Spirit-inspired words to Israel following the exile in Babylon. He offers the people a bold word of hope. In a surprising and even daring manner, the prophet takes on the role of the Servant of the Lord by saying, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me” and “The Lord has anointed me.” Anointing with oil as a mark of the Spirit’s appointment and empowerment for a role and was usually reserved for judges, kings, and priests. The prophet Isaiah brazenly proclaims God’s anointing for a role fit for a messianic figure.

The role the prophet envisions fulfilling sounds a lot like the messianic kingdom has come. The Spirit’s anointing is not about speaking in tongues, ecstatic experiences or supernatural phenomena. The descriptions of the Servant’s work, the signs of the kingdom look more like some kind of social transformation ----bringing good news to the oppressed, binding up the brokenhearted, proclaiming liberty to the captives, release to those in debtors’ prison, to proclaim the year of Jubilee, a time of social justice, and comfort for those who mourn.

These are images that reflect God’s coming reign that the messiah inaugurates. The prophet dares to envision his own anointing and empowerment by the Spirit as doing the work of God’s kingdom. In other words, in some sense, the prophet dares to see himself as having been anointed by the Spirit to engage in the messiah’s work, which focuses on the most vulnerable in society, the marginalized, poor, and oppressed. The prophet boldly dares to fulfill this role.

Jesus also dares to place himself in the role of the Servant of the Lord and the Messiah. When Jesus came to Nazareth, his hometown, he went to the synagogue on the Sabbath, a customary practice, like going to church on Sunday. Homeboy Jesus is asked to read from the prophets, possibly in a cycle of readings. He is handed the scroll of the prophet Isaiah. Remember this was before our modern Bible. Books of the Torah and Prophets were handwritten on separate scrolls.

Jesus just happens to read the chosen text for that particular day from the prophet Isaiah. He reads, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me…” and so on and so forth. Notice how Jesus leaves out the part about “the day of God’s vengeance,” which I think is telling. Jesus hands the scroll back to the attendant and sits down, which is an indication that it’s time for the interpretation. Then he says, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

I’m not sure if everyone caught the meaning of Jesus’ interpretation of this text, because they were “amazed at his gracious words!” Now, I’ll have to admit that it’s nice to hear, “Great sermon preacher,” but sometimes if everyone likes your sermon it could mean that they really didn’t understand what in the world you were saying! Jesus continues his little sermon and clearly challenges his own people’s ethnocentricity, their puffed up pride in being God’s chosen people, which reflects a narrow vision of the messianic age and God’s reign.

And Jesus makes his case from their own scripture. He points to God’s compassion for a foreign widow and God’s healing of an enemy. In doing so, Jesus implies that instead of a messianic age when God’s vengeance will be poured out on their enemies, God’s liberating kingdom will look different. God’s reign is already evident in that all along God has loved, healed, and cared for the foreigner, stranger, and enemy as much as God has loved, healed, and cared for God’s own chosen people.

Now, they clearly understand the theme of his sermon! I can almost hear the people saying, “Shiver me timbers, dem is fightin’ woids!” Jesus’ homeboys are ready to take him on a long walk off a short cliff! At times good sermons can get you in trouble!

Jesus boldly dares to proclaim that “the Spirit of the Lord is upon me because he has anointed me…” to do the messianic work of God’s reign. In the very person of Jesus the Isaiah prophecy has been fulfilled, not so much as a prediction of Isaiah, but in the manner of Isaiah. Like Isaiah, Jesus dares to take on the role of the messiah, who does the work associated with God’s kingdom; proclaiming, healing, liberating, comforting the least of these. In his ministry Jesus will liberate the oppressed, give sight to the blind, including religious people who just can’t seem to see, and live as if the time of God’s justice has already come. For this he had been anointed by the Spirit.

That is why we speak of Jesus as “the Christ.” Christ is not a cuss word or Jesus’ last name. It means “the anointed one.” Jesus was baptized, anointed by the Spirit for his messianic mission. He fulfilled the role of the Spirit-anointed Servant of God, the messiah. That is why he fulfills the words of Isaiah: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me because he has anointed me…”

There is a real sense in which we as Christians, as the messianic community, take on the role of the Servant of the Lord who does God’s kingdom work. To be a “Christ-ian,” an anointed one, is to have received the Spirit’s appointment and anointment for the work of God’s kingdom. Isn’t that what our baptism was all about? It wasn’t just so we could take a bath and get our names on the church membership role. In our baptism we dared to take on the role of a servant of the Lord. In our baptism we risked being appointed and anointed to do the work of the Messiah, to do the work of God’s kingdom. That’s the boldness of baptism. That’s the boldness we all need to say for ourselves, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because God has anointed me…”

That boldness, that daring to proclaim our own Spirit anointment and appointment will be for us to proclaim good news to the poor, release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, liberation for the oppressed, and the time of God’s joyful justice.

What does that look like for us… today… in this place? What are the signs that we are anointed by the Spirit? For us it probably will not look like speaking in tongues or wild visions or ecstatic experiences. But, it will probably look deeper than charity for the poor from our own opulence and abundance, wider than offering our money to the poor detached from our presence. It will mean boldly taking the risk of building relationships with the vulnerable and marginalized in society. It will look like direct involvement in our communities, outside our own church structures. It will feel as uncomfortable as rubbing shoulders with those left out and dropped out, forgotten and forsaken, lost and lonely. It may smell of poverty and sickness.

Signs of the Spirit’s anointing at work will probably look less like a quick e-mail sent off to someone who is ill, depressed or lonely and more like a visit, a cup of soup, or anointing with oil for healing. It may sound like the giggle of a child you are watching play in your living room because her young mother is out looking for work. Or it could sound like the cheers of friends as they welcome an Occupy protestor released from jail.

And, praise be to God, it may just feel like our own already busy lives have been disrupted, disoriented and even turned upside down by our anointing as servants of God coming kingdom. It may feel like my life is not my own…but the Lord’s. And it could also feel like tears of joy streaming down our cheeks as lives are changed, as hope is renewed, as comfort blankets the mournful. It can feel like the oil of gladness poured upon us as a gift from doing what God has called us, empowered us, anointed us to do.

To boldly proclaim for ourselves that “The Spirit of the Lord is upon us and has anointed us…” may just look a bit like…like the messiah has come. And my Advent friends…. he has!


There is more light and truth yet to break forth from God’s Holy Word.

Prepare the Way! Mark 1:1-8

*This sermon was preached on the second Sunday of Advent, December 4, 2011 at Zion Mennonite Churc, Hubbard, Oregon.

The senses come alive during this holiday season. The smell of burning candles rising into the air. The lights of the Christmas tree shimmering in the darkness. The warmth of a crackling fire while sipping a hot cup of chocolate with small marshmallows floating on top. Ahhhhhh… and the hushed silence of snowflakes gently falling on the...PREPARE THE WAY OF THE LORD! MAKE HIS PATHS STRAIGHT!!

John the Baptist enters the Advent season like a bull in a china closet. Amid the jingling of bells and carolers singing “Joy to the world,” we hear a cry that sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard. The grating voice of the Baptist disturbs our tender thoughts of a cooing baby in a makeshift crib. His ragged message of repentance seems as out of place as a wild eyed soup box preacher interrupting a presentation of Handel’s Messiah. John the Baptist brings strange gifts to our Advent table. Instead of a golden brown turkey, we get locusts with wild honey dip. In place of a new night robe and warm cotton lined slippers, we get scratchy camel’s hair with a leather belt.

Even so, if we are going to welcome the good news from the sweet voices of angels from on high, we will need to first listen to the raspy voice of John the Baptist crying out down there in the wilderness.

Listen…listen carefully to that distant voice crying out in the wilderness. The Baptist cries out for us to prepare the way for Christ’s coming. His voice echoes through the wilderness canyons. His apocalyptic cry has political overtones. In John’s day there were other prophets, like the one known as the Egyptian and is referred to in the book of Acts, who called the people of Israel out into the wilderness. It wasn’t because these prophets thought the desert might be a good place to spread their message. They cried out in the wilderness in a type of ritual reenactment of Moses’ deliverance of the slaves from Egypt through the wilderness and Joshua’s crossing the Jordan River in conquest of the Promised Land. Wilderness and river represented places of liberation from their oppressors and the possession of their land.

This may be the background of John’s prophetic wail in the wilderness. As Israel moans under the heavy weight of Roman imperialism, John the Baptist calls her out over the wilderness and through the river, the places where Israel was once liberated from the bonds of Egypt and took the land as their own. His cry in the wilderness may have been heard as an anticipation or preparation for liberation from Roman domination as the beginning of the coming reign of God. The symbolism of the setting was probably not lost on the politicians of the day, particularly king Herod. It wouldn’t be long for Herod to end a dinner date with John’s head on a dinner plate.

Words like “politics” “oppression,” “imperialism” and “liberation” are not words we necessarily want intruding into our Advent meditations. Who wants to hear the harsh voice of the Baptist howling, “Prepare the Way of the Lord! Make his paths straight!”? We might more readily welcome his words if his announcement was akin to “O, you better watch out. You better not cry. Jesus Christ is coming to town!” You know what, when the words John quoted were first uttered, they did come as welcomed words. John was quoting the prophet Isaiah, who first spoke those words in the days of Israel’s captivity in Babylon. The imagery Isaiah uses is from the practice of clearing the pathway of a potentate or god in preparation for the ruler’s procession to the city in order to be inaugurated as the sovereign of the people.

Bumps were leveled. Potholes were filled. Rocks were removed. Weeds were pulled up. Crooked places were straightened for the ruler’s procession to his people. Isaiah uses this imagery to proclaim a word of hope to his people sitting with drooping faces and arms limp at their sides in Babylonian captivity. “Prepare the way for God, who comes to liberate you and lead you across the wilderness, where God will reign among you in your own land,” cries the prophet Isaiah. Now, that’s a welcome Advent message.

John uses Isaiah’s imagery to tell his people to prepare the pathway for the One who comes bringing salvation and liberation to the people. Prepare the way! Remove the injustices and inequities that block God’s pathway. Lift up those valleys sunken by despair and despondency. Knock down the haughty hills of pride and prejudice. Prepare the way for God, who comes bringing justice and liberation through the messiah.

I remember picking up an edition of The Marketplace, a Mennonite business magazine, and seeing on the cover a roadway full of poor, barefoot Haitians clearing stones from a dirt road. With hoes and hands they removed rocks, filled in holes, and knocked down bumps in the roadway. These roadways are the only route for bringing in food supplies, gaining access to medical facilities, and transporting products to market. The new smooth roads are a vein pumping life blood to some of the poorest people in the world. These roads are highways of hope. Mennonite business people have been about the business of preparing the way. They have helped the Haitian people fill in their valleys with fruit trees and improved springs of water. They have assisted them in smoothing out the rough places of 125 roads and 5 dilapidated bridges. The glory of the Lord has been revealed in the form of food, livelihood, and healing medicines coming down those smooth roadways. Prepare the way of the Lord! Make his paths straight!

This may not be the Advent message we were hoping to hear amid the consumerist clamor. It is the season to buy and consume, not to care for the poor and hungry. ‘Tis the season to be jolly and to trample over one another in order to be the first to get a bargain at the department store! We don’t need no sermons on liberation and caring for the poor, preacher. It’s not something we like to hear. What we need is a more cheery message during Advent.

When Gavin was 4 years old we were coming home from school and Iris asked Gavin if he had a good day. Gavin cheerfully said, “Everyone in the world had a good day.” Iris responded, “Well, not everyone had a good day. Some people are poor and don’t have anything to eat. You would’nt want to be without anything to eat, would you? Gavin came back, “I don’t need no sermon talk!” In other words, “Don’t preach to me your pious moralisms!” ‘Tis the season to be jolly! Who wants to hear “Prepare the way of the Lord! Make his paths straight!” during Advent? I don’t need no sermon talk. Don’t preach to me your pious platitudes!

Many did not want to hear this kind of “sermon talk” from another Baptist of our own day---Martin Luther King, Jr. We resisted his prophetic words, because it meant changing our way of life. And it still does. Martin used the very words of Isaiah in his I have a Dream speech in at the Lincoln memorial in Washington D.C. (Get the symbolism of the setting?) He was not there just to create a warm, fuzzy Kum-Ba-Yah moment with blacks and whites holding hands and singing in harmony. His speech was both a sharpened prophetic vision of the reign of God and a concrete political and spiritual call for an end to white racism, discrimination, and segregation.
Like the prophets Isaiah and John, Martin stood in the wilderness of racial inequality and proclaimed:


I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted,
Every hill and mountain shall be made low,
The rough places shall be made plain,
And the crooked places shall be made straight
And the glory of the Lord will be revealed
and all flesh will see it together.
I have a dream…

And for the messenger, like John the Baptist Martin would end up with his head on a platter, so to speak. Prepare a way for the Lord! Make his paths straight! Do we really want to hear this tough message during Advent? Do we want to listen to some cranky old voice denouncing racism when in our day we have an African-American president? Is the old sad song of antiracism what we want to hear when white racism seems to be an anachronism to many people today, a thing of the past? Aren’t we now a post-racial nation? Prepare the way of the Lord! Make his paths straight! It’s seems such an intrusive message into this Advent season.

What makes the message so intrusive is that it calls for us to change. Repent! For the kingdom of God is at hand! Change the direction of your lives! It sounds so guilt-producing. It seems such a negative message for Advent. In our seeker-sensitive-megachurch-consumer-oriented-self-absorbed-war-is-okay-until-it-becomes-inconvenient-culture words like “sin” and “repent” and “redemption” go over like a lead balloon.

This attitude is reflected in a Doonesbury comic strip. The “Reverend” is explaining to a couple inquiring about church membership about the basic approach of his Little Church on Walden:

Reverend: I like to describe it as 12-step Christianity. Basically I believe we’re all recovering sinners. My ministry is about overcoming denial, its about recommitment, about redemption. It’s all in the brochure there.

Wife: Wait a minute---sinners? Redemption? Doesn’t that imply guilt?

Husband: I dunno, there’s so much negativity in the world as it is.

Wife: That’s right. We’re looking for a church that’s supportive, a place where we can feel good about ourselves. I’m not sure the guilt thing works for us.

Husband: On the other hand, you do offer racketball.

Wife:So do the Unitarians, honey. Let’s shop around some more.

John’s abrasive message is part of Advent. Do we have Advent ears open to hear what he is really saying? Prepare the way of the Lord! Make his paths straight! Repent! The kingdom of God is at hand! The dominion of heaven is near! The age of God’s reign is just around the corner. The time is coming when God will cut down the trees of self-centeredness and injustice at the root. The season is at hand when peace and hope will bud and bloom. The day when war and violence shall forever cease is upon us. The hour when we will be judged not by the color of our skin but by the content of our character is at the doorstep.

As the streets are decorated with wreaths and fake snow is prayed on windows, the time is close at hand. As we make our shopping list and check it twice, the kingdom is coming! As we decorate the tree with lights and get out the Christmas recipes, the reign of God has a foot in the door. So, prepare a way for the Lord! Make his paths straight!

If we’re going to prepare the way for the coming reign of God, we better get started now. Grab a hoe. Get a shovel. Fill in a pothole. Level the road. Pick up a rock. Pull up a weed. Volunteer to feed the hungry. Work on a project for peace. Dismantle white racism. Let go of some of your privileges and possessions. Welcome a stranger. Visit a prisoner. For God’s dominion has already begun. God is coming down the highway of this wilderness world. Prepare the way of the Lord! Make his paths straight!

The apocryphal Gospel of Thomas reminds us that the coming reign of God we prepare the way for is already here:

(Jesus’) disciples said to him, “When will the kingdom come?” Jesus said, “It will not come by waiting for it. It will not be a matter of saying, ‘Here it is’ or ‘There it is.’ Rather the kingdom (of God) is spread out upon the earth, and (people) do not see it.”

From the baptismal waters John cried out, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is near!” It was nearer than even John could imagine. But, thanks be to God, he had Advent eyes to see. For the road sign pointing to God’s reign stepped into the muddy waters of the Jordan river right next to him. He opened his eyes and looked at Jesus, stepping into the muddy Jordan River and said, “This is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.” The Messiah of God’s dominion has come. Do we have Advent eyes to see even now God’s reign is spread out across this wilderness world?

Look. A Mexican woman meets with Mennonite leaders and teaches them how to understand other races and cultures in order to treat them with equity. Look. Soldiers are packing their camouflage duffle bags in Afghanistan and unloading their weapons. An army airplane hums outside their tent. It’s taking them home. Listen. The chatter of people waiting in line sounds like a Christmas carol. A doctor is spooning some stuffing into the plate of a homeless woman at the shelter. He does this every year during his vacation time. Listen. Children shout and laugh as water gushes from a newly built pump just finished in their village. Listen….listen closely…can you hear it? A distant coyote is howling in the wilderness and a faint voice is crying out…Prepare a way for the Lord. Make his paths straight.

Unexpected Advent: Isaiah 64:1-9

*This sermon was preached on the First Sunday of Advent, November 27, 2011 at Zion Mennonite Church, Hubbard, Oregon.

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight O Lord, our Rock and Redeemer.


O, that you would tear open the heavens and come down! (Isaiah 64:1). I can understand the feeling of the prophet Isaiah. And maybe you can as well. There have been those times in my life when I wished God would rip the paper sky open and come down, do something dramatic, speak in a clear voice. There have been periods in my life when there was a stark silence, a deafening absence of God.

Church historian Martin Marty has given voice to my experience in his book A Cry of Absence: Reflections for the Winter of the Heart. Upon the death of his first wife Elsa, Marty turned to the Psalms in his grief. I have often turned to Marty’s reflections and to the Psalms in the frigid seasons of my soul. The psalms of lamentation cry out from the winter of the soul for God “to tear open the heavens and come down!”

The prophet Isaiah gives voice to the cry of absence from Judah in Babylonian captivity. He speaks a lamentation for the winter of Judah’s heart. The elite of Judah had been taken captive into exile in Babylon around 587 B.C. They were dragged off to a foreign land with its foreign gods and foreign customs, strange neighbors and strange foods. Judah felt defeated, displaced, and disoriented.

The prophet interprets the exile to Babylon in terms of God’s anger against Judah. He confesses to God on behalf of the people, “But you were angry, and we sinned; because you hid yourself we transgressed. We have all become like one who is unclean, and our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth. We all fade like a leaf, and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away…you have delivered us into the hand of our iniquity” (Isaiah 5b-6, 7b).

The captives in Babylon also feel like God has hidden his face from them (vs 7b). Where is God in our captivity? Have we left God behind in our homeland? Where is the God who with a powerful arm led us out of their bondage in Egypt? Where is the God who came down in fire and shook Mt. Sinai like a baby’s rattle and spoke with a clear and powerful voice through Moses? Where is the God who once defeated our enemies, Pharaoh and Egypt? Where is the God who miraculously fed us with bread from heaven and quail in the desert? Where is our God in Babylon? It was if the gods of Babylon had defeated and sent the God of Israel into exile away from them.

Isaiah gives voice to the cry of their heart in an anguished prayer to God: O, that you would tear open the heavens and come down. Show yourself, God. Make the mountains quake and let the nations shake before your presence! Reveal yourself to those who would scoff at us. Judah was longing for an advent of God

Where is God? Why doesn’t God do something earthshaking? Why doesn’t God come to our rescue? We have all been in life situations that give rise to those kinds of questions that are turned into prayers of anguish. In the struggles of a divided church someone cries out, “Lord, if only you would split the sky open and come down into the midst of this mess and heal us!” In a marriage teetering over the abyss of divorce a prayer goes out, “O God, why have you allowed this to happen?” In continued sickness and the increasing limitations of old age a wife prays, “Merciful God, where are you now that my husband needs you most?” In the persistent financial crisis, an unemployed man prays, “I haven’t had steady work for a year now. Where are you God? Give me a sign that you’re still there.” O, that you would tear open the heavens and come down!

Here is an important spiritual truth to remember. We only have a sense of God’s absence if at one time we have experienced God’s presence. We can talk about the silence of God only because we have, in some sense, heard God speak. The prophet Isaiah reminds God, “You did awesome deeds we did not expect.” He remembers when God was powerfully present and at work in Israel’s history. He points back to the wondrous works God performed in the Exodus, Sinai, and their wilderness wanderings.

Isaiah can only speak of Judah’s present experience of God’s absence and inaction because his people have experienced the awesome and unexpected deeds of God in the past. As so often is the case, in our experience of God’s absence and inaction within our lives, we often forget God’s awesome deeds we did not expect in the past. God’s movement in our lives comes to us as moments of grace, deliverance, and provision; unearned and unexpected. But, then we expect God to act and be present in the very same way and according to our timetable this time, in this situation. And if God does not act in the same ways, we experience God as absent, silent, or inactive. God may be present and acting, but not in the ways we expect.

I can testify to this truth. My call into Christian ministry was an unexpected and powerful experience; so powerful that I gave up my dreams of becoming an illustrator to enter pastoral ministry. Along that journey of being a pastor and a human being, I had periods of anguish when I cried out, “Where are you, God?” I would look at the difficulties I faced in life or in my ministry and God seemed to be silent, an absentee landlord. And I would pray something like the prayer of Isaiah, “O, that you would tear open the heavens and come down!”

Right after seminary I resigned from a position as an associate pastor at my home congregation due to staff conflicts. After languishing for three years outside pastoral ministry, though I searched and searched for a position, I ended up doing odd jobs, and I do mean “odd” for someone trained as a minister. I literally shook an angry fist at the heavens and cried out, “Where are you, God?” Unexpectedly a chance meeting with a Hollywood actor-turned-pastor landed me in on the stage of a creative church ministry position in Burbank, California.

A dying congregation struggling to survive puts the future of my pastoral work in jeopardy and causes me to cry out, “Lord, where are you?” Unexpectedly I get a phone call from a friend of Iris, who I briefly met at a conference, asking if I would consider the position of Minister of Peace and Justice for Mennonite Mission Network. His name is John Powell and he is on the cover of the most recent Mennonite magazine. My ministry of peace and justice and drumming for peace flourishes for seven years.

An economic recession impacts church giving, my whole department at Mennonite Mission Network is cut. At the same time Iris gets the Pacific Northwest Mennonite conference minister job and we move to Portland. I spend two years feeling like I am in exile. No ministry opening. There were few opportunities to use my gifts, calling, and training. I struggle against depression (with the added weight of Oregon’s dreary winter weather). Many times I cry out, “Where are you, God? Why don’t you rip open the sky and come down. Do something, anything!” At moments I wonder, “Have my sins brought this upon me?” Then, I get an unexpected call from a congregation and you know the rest of the story.

Get the pattern? During each crisis period I forgot something from my previous experiences of God’s absence. God had already done awesome deeds in my life. God had come to me when I least expected it. So, I just needed to wait upon the Lord.

You know what I mean, don’t you? The boss calls you in to his office and in a somber tone tells you, “We’re going to have to lay you off.” Your world is turned upside down. You pray to an empty sky. Your words don’t seem to make it past the ceiling. Then, sometime later a call comes unexpectedly over the phone, “Can you come in for an interview?”

A congregation is going through some intense struggles. They can’t seem find their way out. Old negative patterns just seem to repeat themselves over and over. During a Sunday morning service a member dares to pray out loud during the prayer time, “Lord, where are you? Why don’t you just come down from the sky and help us!” Several months pass. Some estranged members meet and offer each other forgiveness. Others let go of old grudges and confess their lack of trust. In their open sharing a new spirit begins to spring up, like a flower growing up through a crack in the cement sidewalk! Lord, you did awesome deeds we did not expect!

Now, I don’t want to negate experiences of anguish and the real sense of God’s silence and absence. The Bible doesn’t censor those feelings and experiences, but allows God’s people to express the cry of absence and to even throw jagged, anguished questions in the face of God. Just read the Psalms.

But, I do want to remind myself, and all of you, to remember that those experiences of anguish and absence are real because we have previously experienced God’s presence, God’s spontaneous grace, God’s awesome deeds, God’s unexpected advent in our lives.

Yet, O Lord, you are our Father….who works for those who wait for you. There is that divine “yet.” In spite of our sense of absence and our sin…yet, God is our divine Parent, still responding to us in love. In spite of our lack of trust, our impatience, our wanting to control the shape of our life experience, yet “we are the clay, and God is the potter” molding and shaping us.

The prophet Isaiah may begin with pleading in anguish for God to rip open the heavens and do some awesome deeds, like in Israel’s past. But, he soon moves back to a position of faith, trust, and hope that God will work for those who wait. Waiting calls for patience, faith, stick-to-it-iveness, hope, anticipation, and attentiveness to the subtle moments and movements of our lives.

Isn’t this what Advent is all about? Waiting? Eager anticipation? Isn’t that why we light a somber purple candle each week until we finally light the white Christ candle symbolizing Christ’s coming. Isn’t Advent about waiting upon God who comes into our lives gracefully, unexpectedly and works for us, for our good?

Advent is about waiting and hoping for the one who comes to our world of exile with good news of great joy. Through hopeful waiting Isaiah’s anguished cry of absence can be turned into an Advent cry of longing expectation: O, that you would tear open the heavens and come down.

There is more light and truth yet to break forth from God’s Holy Word.

Hospitable Sheep: Matthew 25:31-46

*This sermon was preached at Zion Mennonite Church, Hubbard, Oregon, Reign of Christ Sunday, November 20, 2011


May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight O Lord, our Rock and Redeemer

As a preacher of peace and justice I have always liked Jesus’ parable of the sheep and goats. It gave me a chance to stick it to those people who didn’t care about the prisoner, the hungry, the poor, and the stranger. It’s a good parable to shove in the face of those evangelical types who think that right beliefs get you into heaven. You can show them how the final test for heaven, at least in this parable, has to do with whether or not you cared for the poor. In the end those unconcerned about “the least of these” will have hell to pay. That reading of the parable has given me some amount of self-satisfaction. But, is that the right way to read this parable?

Jesus’ parable of the sheep and goats is the last of three parable of three concerning the End Time in Matthew 25. In the parable of the ten bridesmaids we checked our preparedness for the coming of Christ. In the parable of the talents we examined how we use the cash of the kingdom while the master is away. In the parable of the sheep and goats we come before the final judgment of Christ, the king.

As the parable goes, when the Son of Humanity comes in glory, with all those glittery, flittery angels, he will take a seat on his golden throne to reign over his kingdom. All the nations of the earth, all tribes and tongues, races and religions will be rounded up like animals in a herd. Yeeehaw! The Shepherd king will separate the sheep from the goats, as the saying goes. That’s necessary because if they stayed together they might have kids (get it? kids?). Their offspring would eat metal cans and grow steel wool! Or they might grow little goatees!

The blessed sheep are placed on the king’s right hand, the righteous hand (Yeah, right handers!), and the damned goats are placed on his left hand, the evil hand (Boo, left handers!). Just kidding! Then the king says to those on his right side, “Come, sheepy dudes and wooly sistahs, join my partaaaay!” No. He says (in a deep religious tone with British accent), “Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.”

Why? Because you said the “Sinners’ Prayer”? Because you checked off all the right things on that official laundry list of orthodox beliefs? No. Because when I was hungry, you fed me (maybe some tacos from Taco Bell); when I was thirsty, you offered me a Dr. Pepper, I mean a drink; when I was a stranger, you…. Good morning, Sir. I haven’t seen you at our church before. Welcome. We would love for you to join us at our meal after the service today….you welcomed me. I was naked and you bought me some duds, some threads, translation: some clothes. When I had the cramps, you came over and gave me some Pepto. When I was up the river at the big house making personalized license plates, you dropped in for a spell. “Spell,” license plates,” get it? Translation: you visited me in prison.

Then all the sheepy dudes spoke in unison, “Bu-u-u-u-ut, Lord when did we offer you a taco, or a Dr. Pepper, or shake your hand, or buy you some threads, or bring you some Pepto, or say “Hi” at the hoosegow? (That was from my Gnarly Dude Revised Unstandardized Version.) And the king said, “This is the gospel truth. Just as you did it to the least of these my brothers and sisters, you did it to me.”

Then, the Shepherd king will say to those goats on the lousy left (with words censored for young ears), “Darn you, get the heck out of here and hop on the devil’s grill. For you gave me no taco, or Dr. Pepper, didn’t shake my hand, bring me any duds, offer me a sip of Alka Selzer, or visit me in the slammer. And the oblivious goats came back, “Bu-u-u-t Lord, when did all of this go down? Please excuse the goatish expression, but we haven’t seen hide nor hair of you.” Then, the Shepherd king will say, “Here’s the God’s honest truth. Just as you didn’t do a dad-blamed thing for my brothers and sisters, you didn’t do it for me. Off to the barbeque pit you go. But, my groovy sheep they’re gonna be…”grazin’ in the grass. It’s a gas. Baby, can you dig it?”

What is this parable all about? Well, some have interpreted this parable as being about social ethics. As one with a passion for peace and justice, I have leaned toward this interpretation. In this interpretation of the parable all the nations (panta ta ethne) represent the whole world, including the Gentiles, Israel, and the church. The least of these represent the poor and vulnerable of the world. We are all those who will be divided into sheep and goats. The world will be judged by whether or not we had compassion on the world’s poor. Did we feed the hungry, provide for the impoverished, care for the sick, visit the prisoner? That’s the litmus test we will have to pass, not what we believed. Acts of compassion are what make the grade.

If I were to build a sermon on the foundation of this interpretation, I could easily point my long finger of prophetic justice at passive pew warmers, goats in sheep’s clothing, and castigate them for their lack of engagement in the critical social issues of the day. Maybe I would entitle the sermon A Parable to Get Your Goat. At the end of the sermon I could scold some of you for not being involved in Bridging Cultures, Canby Center, Peace and Justice Support Network (which I proudly led), Bread for the World, or Amnesty International. And some sheepy peace and justice lovers among us would probably clap their tiny little hooves. Yea-a-a-h for us! Sorry flock, but that’s not going to be my sermon.

There are a number of problems with this approach to the parable. First, there’s the problem of that little phrase the least of these my brothers (and sisters). It would appear that this phrase is describing disciples of Jesus. Then, all the nations would represent the Gentiles, the world, possibly including Israel. All the nations represent all of those outside the Christian community. If that is the case, then the parable would be about the world’s response to disciples of Jesus as missionaries to the nations.

What reinforces this interpretation is its context within the whole Gospel of Matthew, and particularly the parallels between Matthew 10 and Matthew 25. Matthew 25should probably be interpreted in light of Matthew 10, as a story visualizing Jesus words about his disciples’ mission. You see, Matthew 10 is about mission and evangelism. I can just see some evangelical sheep ears perking up. Matthew 10 is about Jesus’ mission mandate for the twelve disciples to take the good news to the twelve tribes of Israel. He sends them out without money or payment for their work, no change of clothes (Pee-you!), no bag for food, as sheep in the midst of…not goats, but ravenous wolves. These poor disciples will need to depend upon the hospitality of the people they encounter in their missionary travels. Matthew states that the End will not come until the gospel is proclaimed to all nations. Then, Matthew concludes with the Great Commission sending Jesus’ followers, that’s us folks, to evangelize all the nations.

Now, here are a few of the parallels that would justify interpreting Matthew 25 in light of Matthew 10: 1) In both texts Jesus speaks of his identification with the disciples: Whoever welcomes you, welcomes me/ Whoever welcomes a prophet receives a prophet’s reward/In that you did it to the least of these my brethren, you did it to me 2) In both passages water is to be shared with the disciples: whoever gives a cup of cold water/when did we see you thirsty? 3) And the one who shares will not lose their reward; 4) In both Matthew 25 and Matthew 10 the vulnerability of the disciples is emphasized. They are called these little ones/ the least of these my brethren. The twelve disciples have no money for food or drink. They are strangers among the people, facing the possibility of prison and persecution for their missionary work.

So, in the light of Matthew 25’s context within the whole of the Gospel, and most particularly Matthew 10, the parable’s judgment has to do with whether or not the world welcomes the messenger and the message the disciples bring, like the jailer who showed hospitality to Paul and Silas by washing their wounds and inviting them over for a meal (Acts 16:30-34) Does the world welcome the missionary disciples and the good news they bring? That is the basis of the last judgment.

If I created a sermon around this interpretation, it might make some passive, quiet, introverted sheep tuck their tails and run. I could entitle my sermon Evangelizing the World! I could point my long evangelical finger at the goats among us, shake it, and ask why you are not sharing your faith with their friends and neighbors? Hey, the disciples had to witness without money, food, or drink, and faced persecution and prison. More personally speaking, I had to go door to door and share with people the Four Spiritual Laws. I had to ask strangers, “If you were to die today, do you know for sure you would go to heaven. Are you a sheep or a goat, man!” So, why shouldn’t you have to evangelize the world? Wake up, people, the souls of the world hang in the balance. Their eternal destiny depends upon their hearing and responding to the missionary message from you. At the end of the sermon I could make you wiggle in your wool as I asked if you help provide for the needs of our missionaries or, better yet, ask if you are being an evangelist and missionary for Christ within our pagan world. The evangelical sheep in our flock would probably clap their tiny, little hooves and cheer, “Ha-a-a-llelujah, brother!” But, that sermon just might make others of you grow a goatee! Sorry, flock, I’m not going to preach that sermon.

There’s one little problem with this last interpretation. Jesus sent his disciples out saying, “Go nowhere among the Gentiles, and enter no town of the Samaritans, but go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” In other words, don’t go to the nations! Then, why would Jesus tell a parable about how all the nations will be judged by whether or not they welcomed his missionary disciples? Did he just universalize his earlier words to apply to the whole world? Mmmm. Maybe.

How about this. Matthew, the writer of the Gospel, universalized Jesus words to include the whole world. Is that possible? Maybe. He seems to have done that type of thing throughout his Gospel, as do the other Gospel writers, that is, they shaped Jesus words for his own particular audience. Consider this possibility; under the influence (of the Spirit of the Risen Christ), Matthew added his own twist to the earthly Jesus’ words about the disciples’ mission to Israel by making it more universal in his shaping of Jesus’ parable.

Well, whether or not Matthew added his own twist to Jesus’ parable, I am going to add my own twist. More than that, I’m going to flip this parable around backwards. If this parable is about hospitality practiced or not practiced by the world toward Jesus’ missionary disciples, then I want to flip it around and have us consider how we welcome or don’t welcome the stranger among us. However we interpret this parable, welcoming and caring for the stranger in your midst is central to its message. I’ll leave any question related to judgment and upon what basis to God, but I do want us to consider the utter significance of hospitality.

Welcoming the stranger was a significant part of the culture and faith of God’s people. Remember the story of Abraham and Sarah and the three heavenly visitors who showed up at their tent? These angelic visitors were openly welcomed in the breaking of bread and the sharing of the cup, the sharing of a communion meal, as it were. The book of Hebrews talks about this story as welcoming angels unaware. Lord, when did we see you hungry?

In contrast to Abraham’s hospitality to angels, when heavenly visitors came to Sodom the people did not show hospitality. Like Abraham, Lot and his family showed hospitality to the angels with the bread and cup of communion. But, like some prisoners or soldiers at war the men of Sodom wanted to gang rape the strangers in a form of domination. This is not a story about homosexuality, any more than Lot’s counter offer of his daughters to abuse is about heterosexuality! This story is about hospitality shown and not shown to strangers. Lord, when did see you as a stranger and not welcome you?

The widow of Zarephath welcomed the stranger in the prophet Elijah. She offered him her last grains and a few drops of oil to make bread, which she planned to share with her son and then die. The widow and her son received the reward of an endless supply of bread and oil from the prophet. How holy and compelling was her desire to show hospitality! Whoever receives a prophet will receive a prophet’s reward.

Two disciples walking on the dusty road to Emmaus meet a stranger. They talk to him about Jesus and all that happened to him over the past days. The sun starts to go down and paints the hills purple. As the two near their village the stranger keeps on walking ahead. The two disciples tell the stranger it’s getting too late for him to go home alone, so they invite him to an evening meal at their home. As they break the bread their eyes are opened and they recognize it is the Lord. Lord, when did we see you a stranger and welcome you?

A visitor comes to Christ, the King Church for the first time. She doesn’t have a last name that anyone would recognize or a demeanor that would invite anyone close. Her Goodwill dress and weathered face tell a story. It’s the season of Advent, when Christians welcome Christ among us. The church has a lot of drop-in visitors during the season. She’s just another anonymous face. Like many visitors, she’s a stranger.

The lonely-looking woman sits next to a young, hip-looking couple on her left side that’s involved in the local food pantry and the church’s peace committee. They quickly glance over at her with questioning eyes. She fumbles with the bulletin, looks for which hymnal to sing from, and scratches her head while trying to figure out where in the world to find the Bible passage. The evangelical man in a gray suit on her right slips her a Bible tract and goes on singing. Oddly enough, the people on both sides of this stranger, the peace couple and the evangelical, have never themselves broken bread together. They might as well be strangers.

Everyone around her is singing with such longing in their voices: O come, O come Immanuel. After the service she walks out the front door without a greeting, a welcome, or a handshake. Even though she looks homeless and pregnant, no one questions if she has a place to stay or if she’s had anything to eat. She cradles the bulge of her stomach as she walks out under the gray afternoon sky and the red and gold leaves. Her name is….Mary. Lord, when did we see you a stranger and not welcome you?

There is more light and truth yet to break forth from God’s Holy Word.