Robert M Watkins

The man with the withered hand is the healthiest person in this story besides Jesus. He knows what is wrong, seeks repair, chooses the best person for the job, and awaits the results. If all of us could be such good patients, our physicians would rejoice with loud shouts of praise and deep songs of joy!

No, the sickest folks in the story are the ones who deemed themselves the healthiest, which is often the way. Not surprisingly, they are the good folks of a congregation. Mark issues a warning to us all–beware the presumed godliness of the godly–too many times, something wholly other is at play.

Why is that?

An alarming trend in the contemporary American church is that the more pronounced the adherence to strict orthodoxy, the more likely it is that there will be a schism in the congregation and that, sadly, with almost certainty, that congregation will split. It seems that more sure we become of what God wants and what faith practice includes, the more likely we are to become judgmental, divisive, and derisive of those who are different from us or question our self-proclaimed orthodoxy. We see it here in our own community. We see it at Presbytery meetings. We see it throughout our denominations. A declaration of being right leads to a dangerous precipice.

But now, it is the Sabbath.

The Fourth Commandment instructs strict observation of the Sabbath–no one in the faith community, including the animals, is to engage in labor of any kind. The day is to be one of quiet, of contemplation, of prayer, of being still and knowing God.

As God gave this dictum to Moses, God did so to make the experience of shalom a regular piece of human existence. On the Seventh Day, the community would fall still and enter the peace of being with God. All other cares and concerns were to fall away and be set aside. For that single day, all would in God, through God, of God, with God, and for God. God did not need or desire that we slavishly follow this rule as an oppressive, overbearing dictum, stifling us and breaking us. It was meant to open us to the eternal presence of God and to become mindful of the eternal wonder of the creation itself, the chosen home of God with his people.

But something went amiss.

The Fall infected keeping the Sabbath. A day of joyful, peaceful rest became something else through human interpretation–an interpretation marred by sin–in this case, the inability to keep the reason for a commandment in focus, replacing it with blind obedience and brute enforcement.

But there is a man with a withered hand in the congregation this one Sabbath. Jesus sees him right away. He sees the suffering brought by the predicament. He notes the loss the man endures in not being able to be a full participant in life. He sees the man’s handicap for what it is–it breaks him, keeps him from being what God intends for full human life as the Image of God. In short, he sees a problem to be fixed.

However, Jesus sees even more than the man’s obvious brokenness. He also perceives the brokenness of the rest of the congregation, too. He sees their plotting, scheming, and judgmentalism. They see Christ, but as a threat to their carefully built, strongly enforced ORDER. They have intricately constructed a paper-box palace of rules and regulations that form their communion. Somewhere along the way, God was dismissed, replaced by ORDER itself. Anyone who does not believe in the rules–rules from God, by the way–is to be severely checked and watched and, eventually, repudiated. ORDER will be kept. Christ feels compassion for their blindness, their obtuseness, and their loss of God. They are every bit as broken as the man with the withered hand.

So, Jesus asks them a question–

            Is it lawful on the Sabbath to do good or to do harm,

            to save life or to kill?

Of course, no one says a blessed thing–they have already made up their minds–they were made up long before any of them rose for church that morning and long before Jesus’ shadow even darkened their vision.

An old farmer who happened to be an Elder on a Session I moderated repeatedly responded to issues before us with a flat statement of purpose–

            It’s my opinion, don’t muddy me with the truth!

What Jesus wants everyone to see–the truth–is that in every encounter with one another, our first question is never to be one about the rulebook, but always and eternally about GOD–What does God require of us? What does God want of us? What does God want to happen in this situation?

The old prophet Micah asked the question for all of us, and he found the answer–

            What does the Lord require of you?

            To do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly before your God.

That is the blueprint for our congregational life. That is our purpose. That is our end. And that is all we are ever to be about.

It also means that, at times, the rulebook gets tossed aside, even when the rule is one as noble, as pure, and as holy as the Fourth Commandment. On this Sabbath morning, Jesus found a man for whom Sabbath shalom was a wish and dream because he was not whole, well, or able. His need meant action–holy action and sacred work–even on the Sabbath–for compassion would bring more peace, more realization of the holy, and more communion than any other expression of faith in the one holy God. 

What does that look like?

It happens when we set our need to be right, our presumption of knowledge too marvelous for words, and our quick moves to judge one another’s fitness for inclusion, and instead see everyone, including ourselves, through the eyes of God, the Waiting Father, the Lord of compassion, mercy, and grace who welcomes us no matter how wretched we are and will see us well, whole, and full, regardless of whether or not loving someone else fits codes, rules, and regulations.

God never leaves the withered as they are.

Amen.

Robert M Watkins

Jesus’ first sermon, according to Mark, was four statements. The Pastor Search Committee from First Church-Jerusalem knew immediately this was their man–a preacher excelling in brevity–Glory, hallelujah! Now, if he’ll work for free….

But beware brief statements of faith–there is often so much packed into their simple phrasing that it takes work–hard work–to unravel what they mean. These statements are no different. We hear these four thoughts of Christ, blithely assuming we already know what he means, but then, upon further review, we realize these are statements like black holes–so densely packed that meaning fights to arise and come clear.

So what DOES Jesus say and mean?

THE TIME IS FULFILLED

The immediate question here is “What time is fulfilled?” What time is Jesus speaking of? What calendar has come to fruition?

The simplest answer–the time of waiting.

As we read through the Old Testament, an atmosphere of pensive expectation becomes inescapable. Despite all that happens–creation, the Flood, Abraham, Moses, the Exodus, David, the prophets, the Exile–there is a deep proclamation that nothing is done. Things are incomplete. The people of God are not fully who they are to be; the world is not exactly what God intended; darkness still resides in a lot of hearts; and there is an existential hunger for something more.

Jesus declares that the wait is over. All expectation is met.

Ironic, isn’t it? A cursory look around reveals that much of the incompleteness infecting the hearts of Israel 2000 years ago is still with us. We still struggle for meaning. We still struggle to see reason for hope. Staying optimistic is hard work.

Yet, Jesus’ statement is still in effect–fulfillment has come.

THE KINGDOM OF GOD HAS COME NEAR

His next statement is a clue of what we are to look for to experience time fulfilled, but this statement also raises inescapable questions–

            Where is the evidence of the Kingdom of God in the world?

            What exactly is the Kingdom of God, anyway?

Let’s start with the last question first–as Jesus defined it, the Kingdom of God was actually wherever God was met, lived with, and followed. Jesus was not thinking of something that world would readily reveal in a blatant, bold transformation of life as it is. In Mark, we know this because of the way Jesus conducts himself–he reveals himself one person at a time, one event at a time. A sick man is healed. A lost woman is found. A scribe gets a theology lesson. A fisherman is called to service. A wondering woman finds herself in an explicative conversation. In each of these tiny instances and singular moments, the Kingdom is present.

So what is the Kingdom, then? It is a relationship between a human being and God–no more, no less, according to Mark. For us, it comes in moments of stillness and reflection. Perhaps the Kingdom arrives in the middle of a sleepless night when, as we fret, we suddenly feel an assurance that we are not alone, that there is help at hand, and that someone loves us. Perhaps the Kingdom arrives in a moment when a child, for no reason other than simple love, presents Mom with a cupcake. Perhaps it comes when someone does the right thing simply because it is the right thing to do. In each of these tiny moments, grace comes. There is an opportunity for love to grow. There is binding together of people. There is a moment of peace.

Some immediately react to this revelation that it is far too small and nowhere near grand enough to be God or God’s place. But read through the Bible. God speaks with a still, small voice found Elijah. God takes a simple act of family fealty and makes it the foundation for a messianic line of descent in Ruth. Jesus calls a band of faceless men–remember, no one had any reason to know any of the Twelve–and builds the Church in which we worship and serve today. Never underestimate the power of simple kindness and basic devotion.

REPENT

To fully grasp the full reality of that proclamation, Jesus proclaims the necessary first step–repentance. We have lived with that word in the Church for centuries, but, amazingly, we have narrowed its meaning to a painful denunciation of our being. We declare that to repent is to (a) admit we are a miserable wretch of a human being, beyond all hope apart from a radical grace that cannot erase the stain of sin, but, at least, mitigate its power to totally destroy our souls, and (b) admit that our lives to that point are worthless and void. However, as Jesus preaches this word, there is far more nuance to it. Yes, it is a call to change the direction of our lives, and, yes, that includes an admission that we do not do things as they should be done all the time, and, yes, we need to take responsibility for things we messed up through our mistakes; but, no, it is not abject denunciation of ourselves before God; instead, it is an acceptance of God’s invitation to reconsider.

As Jesus uses the term, it is akin to Regis Philbin asking a guest on his game show, “Is that your final answer?” It is a moment to pause, fully consider what was said, and reconsider its accuracy–is it the right answer to the question? We hunger for such moments of grace. We often regret that we did not take such opportunities when something goes awry.

Jesus assures us that, with God, such moments are always present. God meets us in grace. Grace is nothing less than a chance to reconsider. It is God asking us, “Is that really what you want to do?” As we allow God’s question to permeate our consciousness, we open ourselves to wonder. As we reflect and ruminate, we begin to see the work of God all around us. We begin to see moments when that mustard seed approach to growing the Kingdom is actually at work. We begin to see the real power of words and deeds, both for good and for bad. We begin to see the power of what we have said and done in the immediate context of our interactions with family, friends, and strangers alike.

And, most importantly, we see that there is always room for a different outcome. Errors are not locked in place. Mistakes are not permanent or eternal blots upon us. There is hope for another chance, another outcome.

BELIEVE IN THE GOOD NEWS

Hence, Jesus’ final statement is a call to believe. It is one thing to hear a word of grace, it is quite another to actually live it.

One of the great existential challenges to the life of faith is actual experience of forgiveness. We affirm it; we proclaim it; and we hope for it; but when the real need for it arises, we find it hard to feel. And the problem is not one from the outside–more often than not, having someone forgive a fault, slight, insult, or injury it is actually quite easy to come by–we tend to be very good at forgiving someone else, of granting them grace, and offering a second chance. No, the real problem is interior–the forgiveness of self. Regret is a cancer of the soul–it is a feeling that simply will not die, but continues to multiply and compound, driven by guilt that condemns, mortifies, and nullifies acceptance, affirmation, and assurance that we are essentially good, valuable, and worthy pieces of God’s creation.

Yet, the Bible reveals, proclaims, and will not refute that God is good and grace abounds. God is love. God loves us. God’s steadfast love and compassion are eternal. No one in the Bible ever seems to fall completely away from God–even the most abject sinner is shadowed by God.

God waits for us. God will always wait for us. God is with us. God never leaves us. God abides.

Know that.

Believe that.

But, most importantly, LIVE THAT.

Through Christ, we have found our hope, assurance, and confirmation that all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well. As we accept that promise in faith, we find the ability to forgive ourselves–even ourselves. We can live in our own skin and acknowledge our own face in the mirror.

Why does “It’s a Wonderful Life” continue to resonate 65 years after it first appeared? Because George Bailey comes to the realization that he can live with being George Bailey, no matter his foibles, failures, and frenzies, and if he can do so, we know there is hope for us.

If a movie can provide such hope, think how exponentially more God can do so.

“The time is fulfilled; the Kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe the good news.”

Yes, indeed.

Amen.

Robert M Watkins

One of the most significant details in Mark’s story comes in verse five:

And all the country of Judea and all Jerusalem were going out to him and were being baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their  sins.

It is that little modifier “all” that fixes our focus for a moment. What Mark tells us is that there were a lot of hungry people about when Jesus began his ministry–people searching for something, even if they could not pin it down; people longing for a fullness that nothing else offered; and people simply feeling lost in the wide world, unsure of where to go and whom to follow. They come admitting their lack, confessing their sins, as Mark tells it.

It has become a theme, nearly a mantra, for our present moment to speak of searching for something, seeking meaning, longing for direction, and finding little offered by those who would lead or promise relief–they all slip into the bland static of the same old thing that no longer comforts.

John was different–altogether different.

He did not fit the prototype of fitness guru or political savior or self-help pundit. He was rough around the edges and said things with cut and bite. He was not adverse to labeling those who came to him as what they were, sparing no one.

Yet, the crowds came to him. In his sheer difference, there seemed to come hope no one else offered. Perhaps because he was different, it would be worthwhile to listen to him. When someone seems so far out of step with everyone else, there may be some real and actual truth to what they say.

King Zedekiah found this truth inescapable in the presence of Jeremiah. Jeremiah refused to follow the pattern of the “official” Temple prophets who basically said what they knew their audience wanted to hear, be it a royal official or simply the crowd of congregants within the Temple. Jeremiah spoke the truth. He wound up in a cistern, but he spoke the truth. Zedekiah saw that and accepted it–Jeremiah was so far afield that truth had to be in his words.

God is like that. God is God. God speaks a word different from what we might say simply because. with God, the truth, even hard truth, will be spoken.

John’s audience hungers for real truth. Eventually, being told only what one wants to hear becomes empty. Everyone knows there is nothing to it. It can no longer be taken seriously. It offers no help. It leads nowhere. Reality will rise eventually, and to deny it is to place oneself in grievous danger. So, John, following Jeremiah’s example, tells the truth. He names his people for what they are–the lost, the broken, and the unrepentant. He also speaks the truth about himself–he can give them a momentary release from the shadow of their guilt and suffering, helping them to see it for what it is, but that is all he can do. He can baptize with water, but there is another who can do more, someone who can perform not simply a ritual act that helps to grasp the truth, but one that delves deeply into the core of our being, transforming all that is there.

Once a friend of mine who battled weight his entire life decided to make a real and actual change for good. First, he went to his doctor. The doctor outlined a diet, exercise, and overall plan for better health. My friend needed to quit smoking, so medications came to help that. He needed to radically alter how he bought groceries and when and where he ate, so he mapped out his day to avoid the pratfalls of easy food. But, second, the doctor made an important statement. In order for any of it to actually work, my friend would have to do a lot more than change a few behaviors and patterns of living. The real and actual change would have to be one in my friends core being–changing heart, mind, and soul–something no one other than my friend himself could do. There was the meat of the challenge. My friend could admit that this hurdle was always the one that tripped him, too, ending every previous attempt in failure. He knew he needed a power greater than his own to succeed. He needed God.

One of the main principles of many recovery programs is the recognition that we are limited and that hope comes from a higher power. That principle, we discover, is at least as old as John the Baptist. He points to a higher authority, the One who can offer the Holy Spirit as the means by which to overcome all that ails us–i.e., the presence of God that redeems.

At last comes Jesus.

As Mark tells the story, the event was actually nondescript and hardly notable at all.

Jesus comes along with one of the daily crowds gathering at the Jordan to see John. No one knows him. No one notices him, not even John, as being anyone worth noting. Jesus is a face in the crowd, waiting his turn for the dip in the river, waiting to hear John’s benediction, and waiting for whatever comes next.

What happens, Mark indicates, was a private matter between God and Jesus. No one else sees or hears anything, but Jesus, as he rises dripping from the water, hears God’s claim on him and sees the Spirit as a dove descend to him.

Mark is the one evangelist who stresses that the power of faith, the knowledge of redemption, and the transformation of the world through grace is always a move from tiny to cosmic, never the other way around. He does not preach big, in other words. Instead, he offers us a comfort. One of the greatest hurdles to faith is the stubborn constancy of the world to remain as the world is. Its problems, pains, suffering, injustice, violence, and all the rest that fills the papers never seem to take a holiday. There is never a day when the headline screams, “NOTHING HAPPENED!” We wonder from time to time where God might be, what God might be doing, and when God will come. Mark tells us–assures us–God is right here; God is redeeming us; and God has always been with us. But, Mark says, do not look for the overwhelming thunder and explosion of holy fireworks that send all the world scattering in awe, rather look closer to home, look to the power of kind words and deeds, look to the simple grace of one person accepting another, and look for opportunities to share love with another person–there is God, there is grace, and there is our salvation.

Only Jesus saw or heard a thing, but look what happened next–all that Jesus experienced became his proclamation. He sought the lost, healed the sick, raised the broken, freed the oppressed in mind, body, and spirit, ushering in a new creation of hope, wonder, and, yes, even laughter. Here, 2000 years later, we gather because Christ came. We come because he is still here. We come also to find what is to be shared, speaking truth that heals.

Amen.

Robert M Watkins

Step one:

Remember which children you brought with you on the trip!

Our story from Luke this morning brings Jesus right into our own homes. As a parent, I can well recall moments when I was sure that my wife knew where the children were just as she knew that I possessed that information while neither of us knew a blessed thing at all. Oh, the mad dashes through the neighborhood, the frantic searches of the house, and the quick marches up and down the aisles of a supermarket. It is so very comforting to find out that Mary and Joseph lost Jesus, just for a little while. It assures us completely that Jesus was fully human.

That piece of information is invaluable as we stand on the cusp of a new year.

Both of our Old Testament texts remind us inescapably of whom we are–grass that withers, a breath of wind, and inconsequential in the great sweep of time. Old Testament texts are supposed to do that. They are to remind us always of our humility before God. God is. We are not gods, no matter how we puff ourselves up and arrogate our status.

North Korea laid their dictator to rest last week. The crowds wept–but out of sorrow, or simply due to fear that if they did not weep, there would soon be cause for real tears quickly? The motorcade passed–what looked to be ancient Lincoln Continental convertibles, the first with a twenty foot by twenty foot portrait of Kim Il Jung tied into it. Now, if that is not declaration of self-importance, I do not know what is. It all smacked of Herod from the Gospels–a monarch lost in himself to the point that he engaged in murder to ensure real grief at state funerals.

Prophet and prayer alike remind us that such stances are patently false. Beyond that, they are anathema in the presence of God, a real and true power, one fully worthy of worship. God alone is the source of all things. God alone can bring life into being from nothing much. God alone can break the barrier of death. God alone can bring to fruition purposes, promises, and possibilities with no thought of failure of any sort. God is. We are not gods.

But how does God use such unimaginable power?

To be with us.

To commune with us, deeply and profoundly.

To become one with us.

And God does so with an end to bring love that knows no bounds into full blossom. God wills that we live free from the shadows of sin and death, free from the fears that come with those dread shadows, and free to be all whom God created us to be.

The sign of this wondrous grace is Christ as Jesus of Nazareth. Our hope comes in this story from Jesus’ childhood–his parents lost him in the chaos of a family traveling–too many distractions, too many pulls, too many voices to keep up with everyone, with the result that Jesus got left.

A minister friend of mine confessed once that he left his daughter locked up in church one Sunday afternoon. It was a classic misstep. He and his wife were usually near the last to leave after greeting everyone, but thus Sunday, his wife left much earlier than usual, for her parents were visiting and she had to finish getting lunch prepared. The pastor assumed that junior-ette took this opportunity to flee the premises–no early escape could be dismissed–so he did not really pay much attention as he packed up his computer and things to go home. He got home and even got as far as getting settled at table when his wife casually asked, “Did you call Sarah for lunch?” No, he had not. So he went upstairs to fetch her, but she wasn’t in the playroom, nor her bedroom, nor ANYWHERE. “Didn’t you see where she went when y’all got home?,” he asked.

            “No, because she rode with you.”

            “No, she didn’t; she rode with you!”

A look of abject horror passed between them, and off to the church he sped. He found Sarah no worse for wear in the Senior High classroom, watching TV, lost in a movie, blissfully unaware she’d been left.

Christ came for this!

That is so good for us to remember situated as we are on New Year’s Day.

No one can be quite sure what awaits us in the coming year. I would be loathe to make any predictions whatsoever. Things are jumbled and uncertain, a mash of conflicting pieces that no one can really sort out or muddle through to force a focus of any clarity.

Psalm 90 is a great assurance for anyone dealing with uncertainty of any kind. At times, we find this psalm hard to read because it seems so pessimistic about human life. It does not shy away from suffering of any sort or type. It does not dismiss that a good people struggle to make it through their days. It does not try to sidestep the feeling from time to time that God may somewhere be the root of what ails us. Yet, even as the psalm prays starkly and bluntly, it just as powerfully proclaims the faith that in God, all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well. God’s first response is mercy. In that mercy, God may well correct us as we stray, but God will also be with us to assure us that we WILL find our way at last.

Hold fast to that proclamation.

Isaiah does, remarking at the deep contrast between ourselves and our God. We may be grass, but God, and, just as importantly, God’s Word, endures forever. There is no day, month, or year in which God is not already present with grace, redemption, and comfort for all therein. We see in a glass darkly, but for God, all is laid out completely, fully, and all is within God’s care. With that assurance, we can sleep tonight and each night to come. I know that for some of us, even that assurance may not help each and every night, but the promise is there. God is with us. God knows us. God understands us. We may wither under stress, but God knows no stress. God offers us that firm, powerful hand to guide us and keep us.

Look to Jesus, lost in the Temple. Jesus was not afraid. He was at home in the Temple. He was with his Father in heaven. It probably took Mary a good, long while to accept that–and to stop glaring at Joseph for being a nincompoop! But Jesus knew what we can know–with God, all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.

Keep that thought as this new year unfolds day by day.

Amen.

CHRISTMAS MORNING

ROBERT M WATKINS

One of the special qualities of worship during Christmas is simply the light in which worship. The sanctuary looks far different now than it does in the light when we gather together in other times and seasons. The golds and yellows of the incandescent trees bathe us with warmth and softness, embracing us in the peace of this place in way unique to this time of year.

What better place to meet our God.

That is the whole point of our gathering this morning. We have heard the angels sing; we have come as did the shepherds to see this thing that God has done. God has come to us as one of us to be with us in redeeming grace. God meets with us.

Of course, we are quite literally far removed from that meeting. Christ was born 2000 years ago in a remote corner of the world. It was so long ago that we do not even know the precise time that it happened. We set a date and broke the bleak midwinter with a festive celebration, but when it actually happened is no longer known. Sometime between 6 BC and 12 AD, we think. Taking Luke’s hints and running them through Matthew’s filter, it could well have happened, not in bleak midwinter, but in glorious summer sunshine. The distance we experience muddies things and makes them foggy. It is like approaching the mountains. First, we see only the dark, hazy shadows on the horizon. Distance makes them small and fuzzes their ridges. But we know they are mountains. We know they are huge. We know their magnificence.

That is what John wants us to know–the pure magnificence of Christ’s arrival. He came as the first light of God’s new creation–the world as it should be, free of the specter of sin and death, alive with wonder, joy, and peace. John wants us to see the first rays of the new rising sun on the dawn of God’s recreation of the world and us within it.

So we gather in the warmth and embrace of this sanctuary, cloaked in the light of a winter morning. Sitting still, breathing, it washes over us and through us. For some of us, this experience makes Christmas. We relish being here in this light. We want to take in the sanctuary and the poinsettias and the trees and the flying angels overhead. We let the carols waft over us, carrying us to quiet Bethlehem, awakening still weary with the weariness of simply living, but to whom and for whom Christ has come and angels sing. Oh, to be with those shepherds–to see the wonder of it all.

There is a cross before us.

This cross requires our attention.

It is not meant to dampen the warmth of the day, but to enhance it. Through this cross, we find the words of the prophet fulfilled. Here is the source of the wondrous light shining upon us. We come to worship a child, but hear the proclamation of John–as we receive Christ born to us, he gives us–

            the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of          

            the will of the flesh nor of human volition, but of God.

                                                            (Jn. 1:12c-13)

In the cross, that claim by God upon each of us is made plainly and clearly and inescapably. Through the cross, Christ meets us face to face, offering redeeming grace in the gift of himself, given without question, without hesitation, given freely to make us free.

For some, this piece clashes with Christmas. It seems an intrusion of darkness in our festival of light.

But, no, nothing could be further from the truth. It is in the cross that the light we celebrate shines most brightly. Here is the reason the child was born–here his purpose is fully revealed for all to see. Here is the great light that shines on those who dwell in darkness. Here is the light of redeeming love. Again and again, John proclaims, not its sadness, but its glory–here is the fiery light of Christ, shattering all despair, hopelessness, and angst–here is the good news!

God chose long ago to intervene. God chose long ago to do so through a child born to us. God chose long ago to call all the world to be with him. So long ago, yet so very present. Here it is before us. Here it is to be taken ahold of and embraced.

Here it is–the first light, the one light, the only light necessary to see our way clear of all that would blind us to hope, comfort, and joy.

So, sit still, take in the light of this place, allow it to warm heart and mind alike. It is good and all is well and all manner of things shall be well.

Amen.

Robert M Watkins

This psalm is a hymn of praise to the redeeming Lord. It sings of God’s favor for the Least of These. It sets humility as the foundation for righteousness, declaring that if one remembers one’s place before God, then the fullness of God’s grace and mercy will be realized in one’s life.

Here is a cure for what ails some of us as we pass through the holidays. The glitz and the glitter get to be overwhelming. The sensory overload is simply too much. One of my neighbors, God bless him, annually mounts a sound and light show that I know Google Earth satellites can see from space. There is not a square inch of his home’s exterior that is not festooned with some form of neon light–not the traditional colored or white twinkling globes for him–nope, these are Klieg lights to make the rock group KISS blush! Then he wired the roof with speakers blaring Christmas music–again, not carols or “Frosty” for him, but some sort of prog rock blast-a-thon Christmas. The rest of us are left huddling in a closet, pleading for mercy by December 3!

But this psalm brings us home.

The opening thought is praise of God because God is gracious and forgiving. God redeems us from sin–sin here is anything that separates us from God; i.e., sin is not simply transgressions against commandments–sin is not necessarily a moral issue, but rather is always a relational one. God seeks to eradicate all that keeps us from dwelling in the full presence of God, therefore, illness, despair, loneliness, need, brokenness, and so on are met by God’s judgment, not to condemn us, but to liberate us to sing, dance, and rejoice in God’s favor. God is praised because God always seeks the maintenance of God’s relationship to God’s people.

What wondrous good news this word is! The child born of Mary comes to save us from ourselves. I thought of that this week as once again the harried, hurried, and harassed of the season come to light in the movie, “Christmas with the Kranks,” John Grisham’s couple who momentarily seek to free themselves of the season, until their grown daughter destroys their rebellion by coming home unannounced with her finace! We laugh because it tells the truth–all of us at one moment or another will lose it this season. We will break. Jesus and the legions of angels will flee from before us. We will be in the wilderness. It’s all right, declares Psalm 103. God will find us, God will bring us home, because that’s how God loves us.

The psalmist reminds the reader that God has always been a God vindication–redeeming the faithful from whatever breaks them down. All this can be seen through the prism of the Exodus, the psalm reminds us, wherein God revealed his omnipotent mercy–God refused to leave the children of Abraham in the bonds of slavery that robbed them of their lives.

A caveat, however, we cannot assume this mercy to be cheap grace–God continues to judge our disobedience and will continue to correct us–that is also a part of God’s redeeming love. It would not be love if it left us in a state alienated from the God who made us–libertarianism is not love. God is a true father to us, correcting us to preserve us; guiding us in the paths of justice and righteousness, calling us to heel when we wander from them. Finally, in God’s judgment, we also need to see God’s grace in the fact that God does not meet our disobedience with equal wrath. Herein is a text to warm Calvin’s heart–through our disobedience, we forfeit all rights to God’s grace, yet God is gracious to us. That is what defines grace as grace. Remember that, dear children, as mom opens a gift of dollar store potholders and dad unwraps a squeeze bottle of Rain-X while a plunder worthy of Croesus awaits you–I’m just saying…

Next, the psalm treads into what could be seen as bad news–human beings are impermanent. The psalmist makes a poetic analogy to wildflowers in a meadow–they rise and they fall in the passing of a season–a truly momentary existence. How far back can we name the generations of our own families–genealogists excluded? Slowly, the sands of time swallow us. In stark contrast, God is eternal. Therefore, God’s love is eternal. It knows no season. God loves each generation of humanity equally–they are all God’s children. Thus, it is our task to be sure that each generation knows of the eternal love of God, proclaiming the good news of God’s salvation so each generation will know the ways and means of faith, thereby staying within the fold of God’s steadfast love.

Here is the beauty and wonder of baptism of a child–we commit ourselves to living the story of our Immanuel, embodying Christ with us for each child we care for in our midst. We tell the story through our presence–words, action, and simple being–to each generation. So, what are we saying?

The psalm then ends with a resounding call to all levels of being to praise the Lord. The angels, God’s messengers, are to praise the Lord simply because they of all creatures should know the glorious works of God. The hosts of heaven–God’s servants–should praise the Lord, for they, too, know firsthand of God’s glorious power and work. All creation should bless the Lord because by simply taking stock in being a mighty act of God in and of themselves, they see and experience the glorious power of God. Finally, the psalmist calls on his own soul to bless the Lord, for in God there is solace, comfort, and hope because all that God does, God does in steadfast love. In that is a total living of the song of the angels Luke recalled.

So what does this psalm have to do with Christmas? I hope that by now that is rather obvious.

But if not…

In a sense, the psalm defines the whole Christ event whose advent we celebrate in Christmas. Christ is God’s embodiment of all that the psalm praises. In Christ, God ends the reign of sin in all of its forms. In Christ, God redeems all who are penitent seeking the mercy of God. A warning, though, is also proclaimed–Christ redeems, but there needs to come the step of penance–it is inescapable. The eternal love of God is fully revealed in Christ–hence, Luke records the songs of love–one in the angelic message to the shepherds, and, again, as Mary sings in her hymn of praise, the Magnificat, Christ is the embodiment of God’s lifting of the lowly, and, taken as a whole in his story, Luke tells of Christ as the redeeming steadfast love in telling the story of Mary, Bethlehem, shepherds, and angels–Christ is for the Least of These without question. More subtly, Matthew also reveals this truth in his nativity as the Christ stands in opposition to power as the world practices it. Christ is not abject power for power’s sake; Christ is power for love, redemption, and reconciliation. Christ will empty himself embodying the magi’s gold, frankincense, and myrrh. The eyes of faith will see that for what it is.

Robert M Watkins

Our texts today are three hymns of praise sung by women of faith at key junctures in their lives and, as it would turn out, in the collective life of Israel. They are bold affirmations of God’s redeeming power. They are resounding statements of trust in God to be the God of God’s promises, particularly those promises made to the Least of These, those folks left out by the status quo who find themselves in the cold most of the time.

But what have they to do with Christmas? Why do I call them carols–songs which joyously sing of Christ’s birth?

To answer these questions, we will examine each song, then see how they fit the definition of a carol.

THE SONG OF DEBORAH

Deborah rose as a Judge–a misnomer, for these men and women were hardly what we would call “judges”–they did not hold sway in any courtroom, nor did they ever litigate legal matters among the tribes of Israel. Rather, they arose as they fought to gain a foothold in the Promised Land. They were warriors who led Israel against tormentors among the indigenous peoples of the Land. Without them, Israel might well never have survived the settlement stage of realizing the promise of God to create a kingdom out of these redeemed slaves. Deborah battled the Philistines led by Sisera, and she plotted a winning strategy that relied on a servant girl, Jael,  playing to the worst pieces of Sisera’s personality, trapping him and eliminating him–all Jael had to do was bat her eyes at him, and he stupidly presumed he had her in his power–BANG!–she killed him.

Israel rejoiced and burst into song. God was good and grace abounds.

Christmas also stands as an unexpected interruption in the normal politics and policies of the world. In so many aspects, Christmas uses the same wiles as Deborah and Jael to bring about an acknowledgement of God’s power to redeem. Think of it–the world hijacked Christmas long ago–as far back as the 1830s, if Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” tells the truth. But we find grace in the midst of the crass commercialism that is Christmas as we know it. As our real and actual families gather beneath the tree on Christmas morning, I feel fairly confident in knowing that the gifts exchanged there are the result of thinking, connecting, and expressing the ineffable love that binds us together. As we gather together, all of us recognize that the world’s emphasis on getting and materializing immaterial spirits of love, compassion, and grace are nothing. Our joy is in one another–the sudden electric spark of a grandchild rummaging through the bright paper and packages, the deep well of devotion as our beloved opens a gift selected with care, and true and actual communion experienced at our Christmas table. It is this truth that makes Dickens’ tale so adamantly a piece of our celebration–the cynic is silenced, he finds love’s power, and he sees that appearances are meaningless, the real miracle is within. As Jael slipped into the innermost defenses of a greedy man hungry for dominance, so, too, does Christmas overturn our blind impulses to make it all glitter and gold–it is always about love, forever about compassion, and it will always be so, thanks be to God.

HANNAH’S SONG

Hannah is one of the overlooked saints of God without whom there would be no faith community as we know it. Even people who are part of that faith community, folks well-schooled in Bible and theology, forget her. She was a barren woman who believed with all her heart in the promises of God to be with the afflicted. In her day, barrenness was not a biological conundrum, but an assumed curse by none other than God. A barren woman was seen as outside the ordering presence of God’s will. As such, the community shunned her–most painfully because they did not make it a bold dictum, but rather pronounced it through the subtle works of averted eyes, wise looks, whispered commentary, or a lack of invitations. She gave herself to God, even promising that any child that should come would be God’s own child. She only wanted to taste redemption, just to know the touch of infant lips, that would be enough. God heard, God answered, and Hannah sang in bold proclamation of grace received, seeing not her own individual moment of salvation, but she affirmed God’s saving work for anyone who is in the waste of empty existence of any kind. Her child was Samuel, kingmaker and prophet, who gave Israel David, the king of kings for Israel, and forebear of Christ the Lord.

Here is a moment akin to that in the still miraculous Christmas special, “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” when Charlie Brown cries out in existential anguish that he cannot and shall not get his mind around the real meaning of Christmas–Linus confronts him with no ready answer, but instead recites Luke 2:8-14, quietly intoning as the angelic words, “Glory to God in the highest, and, on earth, peace, goodwill toward men,” hang in the air, that this is what Christmas is all about. Linus breaks through the gloom with the illuminating light of Christ; we break through the gloom of the world in 2011 with the same light when we sing together that Jesus Christ was born to save in many of our carols. We are barren, dried up, and wearied by the world as it is in this present moment–it is all too much to bear–we are tired of cynical politicians assuming our stupidity to buy into whatever illusion they present; we are tired of facing word of economic doldrums that dim prospects, comfort, and hope; we are tired of a world run by violence–I think many of our hearts broke as word came again from Virginia Tech of yet more bloodshed on its bucolic campus–all of it is too much. But the angelic chorus sings for us–there is good news of great joy; there is glory all around us; and there is peace in the earth–real, actual peace–for Christ is here, Christ lives, and Christ redeems. That is what all of this season is all about.

THE MAGNIFICAT

J.S. Bach famously set Mary’s song to music and it is a wondrous experience to sit in silence as the music and words bathe us in the glorious grace of God. Even in Latin, the wonder of Mary comes through as she finds the powerful redeeming presence of God at work within her.

And that is the point.

She is a young girl in Luke’s narrative–still a child in so many ways, hardly experienced at all in the ways of life, death, and the search for meaning; yet she profoundly knows the power of God to transcend and transform human existence.  Do not miss the nearly identical phrasing of her song and that of Hannah, for, indeed, Mary sings the same truth–if God works through the literal being of a young girl, imagine what that means for all the world–there is no one and nothing that is outside the use and blessing of God. No one is beneath contempt, worthless, or to be forgotten. All are objects of God’s love, and as such, will become instruments of God, for to be loved by God is to be called by God into service–we are to be compassionate as we find compassion. It is a profound and divine word that is spoken in an alien language to that of our culture and society that routinely judges some worthy, some not; some valuable, others not so much; and celebrates celebrity while ignoring true character. The message still comes through loud and clear–God works through us, even us, to redeem the world.

And here is the way to fully embody the Spirit of Christ as we practice once again all of our Christmas traditions–they all can become instruments of grace as we embody grace in our words and actions. Be mindful, O people of God, that words matter, gestures count, and, as we give, we represent the grace received from God. What a joyous opportunity to see that the praxis of love as God requires it is not beyond us, too holy for us to practice, and out of reason–it is here and now in our very celebrations! Give glory to God, for God knows even us, and finds in us saints of faith and miracles of wondrous love.

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So, yes, these three songs are carols. They sing of good news of great joy which is for all the people. Sing loudly, sing long–Christ is born in us today!

Amen.

Robert M Watkins

A good piece of counsel as one reads scripture is that if something is repeated again and again and again, then it probably bears paying extra attention to that detail. For example, the Bible proclaims compassion to be THE response of faith from Genesis to Revelation; therefore, we probably ought to think seriously about being compassionate. Well, here our lessons reveal another detail–a place–that we need to ponder deeply–Egypt.

“Out of Egypt, I called my son,” said God to Hosea, and Matthew reiterated it.

What is Egypt?

One of my Bible professors in college, Dr. Dan Rhodes–who was old as Methuselah then (we were convinced that he taught Old Testament because he lived through it himself)–referred to Egypt as “Them folks on the Nile”–and, yes, Egypt is as it was–the nation that grew around the flood plains of the Nile River in North Africa, an ancient and wondrous civilization that astounds simply by its age. It was also for a time the home to the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, albeit not under the best of circumstances, as they were part of the slave labor force that built the icons of empire.

It is this piece of the picture that became a symbol throughout all of scripture–Egypt was a place of non-being, a place where God’s people slid into the subhuman existence of slaves, and so, Egypt became a metaphor for existential death and nothingness. To be in Egypt was to cease to be.

Egypt exists for us, as well.

Life is tricky and a winding road with many blind alleys, spiritual cul-de-sacs, and dead ends to make it interesting. There are periods of life that ensnare us in shadows that loom and threaten us. We suffer through times when our fallibility and frailty become inescapable. Grief is real and actual, at times threatening to undo us. Worry is a companion on the journey as debts, bills, job security, children, parents, and countless others occupy fret lists. We get angry when others stand in our way of getting where we need to be, from the banal–the idiot who swipes the parking place even as we turn into it–to the profound–the colleague who lies their way past us to a reward at work. We get angry with ourselves when we fail to meet our own standards. Frustration can rob our lives of meaning as the world spins away from us and out of our control. Again and again, we find ourselves in Egypt, seemingly helpless to do anything about it.

But something remarkable happened in Egypt, something miraculous.

“Out of Egypt, I called my son.”

God was and is in Egypt. God is wherever chaos reigns. God is with whomever feels invisible, lost, and broken. God is wherever a life is devoid of all meaning for whatever reason. God is there because God promised to be there. God promised to abide with his people in steadfast love–love that never fades, dims, or vanishes unexpectedly. God is true. God is love.

That is good news for us today.

It is good news because it means that the inanity that surrounds us constantly is just that–stuff and nonsense–in the presence of God. Politicians can bluster and blow like endless hurricanes; nations can dance along the brink of war; even family members can prove all too human; but God will be God, able to redeem us from any conundrum, tar pit, or puzzle we find ourselves within. What a powerful message for us this Christmas–God is strong to save. The future looms, but God is already there.

For as we listen, God reveals redemption–”Out of Egypt, I called my son.” God called Israel from slavery into freedom, from non-being into life, and from dejection into joy. Moreover, the Exodus was not fixed in place as a single and singular event, but rather became the pattern for God with God’s people for all time. Moses literally led the people from bondage into freedom, but God also led Israel through the prophets from sin into beatitude, and, looking backward, even creation itself came to be through an exodus of sorts–from chaos into order. God loves his people–they are God’s children. In love, then, God refuses to let them waste away in whatever Egypt they find themselves within–God wills for them life–full and joyous life.

Which brings us to the Christ child whom we celebrate and anticipate anew.

Matthew reminds us of the presence of Egypt even in a context as giddy as Christmas. Matthew will not let us forget the whole meaning of the child born to Mary and Joseph–he is a savior who will save us through his own sacrifice on our behalf. To do so, he will enter our Egypt and draw us forth.

Oh, how the world railed against his presence, cries Matthew. Mad King Herod and his minions sought to be rid of any savior child, unleashing terror, murder, and sheer evil in the effort to be rid of a meddling God. In a seeming defeat, Mary, Joseph, and Jesus fled to Egypt–only in that land of existential waste could they find peace from Herod’s violence. But this was no defeat–this was communion–sweet, sweet communion–as our Savior became one with us, even in the depths of Egypt, no matter its actual form.

Jesus Christ meets us where we are, as we are, and how we are. He does so in pure, unadulterated love. He binds himself to us in every aspect of our being even though he is God’s own Son. He does so to free us from every bond, every entrapment, and every entanglement in which we find ourselves snared. He will have us free.

Matthew slightly tweaks God’s message to Hosea–”Out of Egypt, I have called my Son”–a capital “s” on that last word. God performs the Exodus miracle one more time, repeating the Egyptian Maneuver in an ultimate play that forever ends the power of sin and removes the stain of death from our existence.

This core is the center of the angelic choruses we hear this season. It is ground of all hope. It is the cause of all celebration. It is a door into joy that nothing else can close.

Children of God, hear and believe this good news for us today.

Amen.

Robert M Watkins

In scripture, the angel Gabriel has the task of interpretation. He comes to explain to Daniel, then to Zechariah and Mary, what it is that God has in mind. As we look at these stories, we find that Gabriel’s message is consistent and constant–Fear not! For the prophet, for the priest, and for a young woman, each of whom faced unforgiving, overwhelming crises, the message is the same–Fear not! God is afoot; all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well!

Wouldn’t that be wonderful if it was wrapped beneath our Christmas trees with a big bow on top? A cessation of fear, a removal of worry, and a world at rest in the presence of God are such wondrous gifts that we assume them impossible pipe dreams in our current context. The world wobbles, tossed about on human unpredictability. There is no rest for the weary as the news continues unabated of the latest conniption in the global markets, international politics, and even here at home. We feel frightened and uncertain. We are not sure what 2012 will look like, and we are loathe to make any sort of predictions about what might come. Who has any sort of grip on things right now?

We are not alone in this circumstance. A glance through biblical history reveals that such moments come with startling–and perhaps troubling–regularity. Nations totter, hopes dim, and outlooks grow skeptical. Daniel was a visionary in a strange land, a faithful Jew in the heart of a pagan empire, still shocked by the collapse of Jerusalem and the exile that snatched him to Babylon. All the promises of God seemed in question. All the hopes of faith were slackened by an inescapable reality that faith did not save them. His dreams were haunted by strange creatures and terrible sights of cosmic war. He was left blasted and confused by what he dreams. Zechariah is old, feeling it in his bones. He carries with him a quiet ache that nothing can quite soften–he watches his wife silently grieve that they have no children. Most days they are happy enough, but then reality will strike in an unguarded moment–they see friends dandling grandchildren on their knees; they watch in the Temple as fathers bless their sons; they see other families dedicating children to the Lord; and their own emptiness comes slamming home. Mary is betrothed to Joseph, but now all her planning, joy, and expectation are upside down–this strange visitor tells her so–she is with child–but she is just a child herself–how can this be? What will happen now? Fear grabs her. Three separate circumstances, but each utterly familiar, really. There is nothing new–human beings face conundrums and contradictions every day, every hour. We are not alone in our suffering.

Yet, the message comes that the biblical experience of hope is available for us. To Daniel, Zechariah, and Mary, the angel Gabriel comes, saying the same thing, “Fear not!” He speaks to us, as well. “Fear not, O 21st Century people!”

Then Gabriel gives everyone a reason for hope.

Gabriel reminds his hearers that God is working. They are in the presence of the Living God. As such, there is never a moment when God’s creative will is not at work, never a time when God is not ordering chaos, when God is not bringing life from non-being. That is who and what God is. In the presence of God, nothing is complete, nothing is fixed in place, and no power is ultimate save that of God alone.

On the one hand, that is a bit off-putting–we want to know that everything has limits, that not everything will last forever, and that there will come moments when all is actually said and done. Does Gabriel imply that we are doomed to incompletion, that we will never achieve settledness, and that chaos wins in the end?

No.

Gabriel means that there is always hope. No hurt, pain, or suffering is ultimate. There is no moment that is hopeless. There is no crisis that is fixed like Jupiter’s hurricane that roars on for eternity, spinning its red spot endlessly around the planet. Through God, there is hope–a hope that nothing can quench, that nothing can dim, and nothing take from us.

This year, there seems to be an especial urgency about getting Christmas going. Stores launched Christmas early this year. Thanksgiving dishes were not yet cleared as the merchants clanged the pans and sounded the alarms that the best shopping needed to be done NOW! A neighbor of ours turned their yard into a festival of lights on November 15! Some of us near them had not yet removed Halloween pumpkins from the front stoop. I kid you not–I got my first Christmas card in the mail the second week in November!

Why the rush? Why the near frantic run to get Christmas going?

I think because we are quietly afraid that Christmas might not come this year. We may not voice such a thought aloud. We may not even consciously acknowledge that such a thought could even worm its way into our minds. But we seem anxious to get Christmas fired up, to spangle the neighborhood with Christmas cheer, and to start shouting carols and “Jingle Bells” as loud as we can to drown out all the other noise that clamors around us at a crescendo. We are a bit amok, truth be told.

Gabriel’s message rings loud and clear–

FEAR NOT!

I made a choice this year to choose the hymns for worship this season, and, by gum, I decided to choose nothing but the good ol’ carols that we all know, even though none of them acknowledge waiting until Christmas morning to sing of Christ’s birth–he is born right now, right here! None of this Advent stuff, not this year. Why? Because we need it; we need to know that Christ born, that Christ is here, and that the angelic choirs sang ages ago of peace on earth and good will to all of us poor humans. We need to know that there is no waiting period for Christ. He is here now, his redemption is now, and his peace is now.

FEAR NOT!

Do be afraid, for behold good tidings of great joy. Dark as it is, the world is showered in light that nothing can quench nor overcome. Big as the problems are that we face, God is bigger still. Lonely as it feels to be awash in worry, God is love, and in that love, God take us to himself.

FEAR NOT!

God is with us.

Robert M Watkins

So paradigmatic is Paul’s conversion that having a “Damascus Road” experience is synonymous with total transformation in any context. Just use that phrase and everyone knows immediately what the subject is.

But today, I want us to make our reflections more specific–what does Paul’s experience mean for us as would-be disciples? Does his experience define faith in such a way that his experience becomes exclusive in being the standard by which our own entrance into the ministry of Christ is tested?

In my Charlotte congregation, I encountered a man who could date to the exact minute when his faith in Christ began–9:57 PM, September 16, 1953. He was in the Army and was 22 years old. He was rough, raised on a farm in Mecklenburg County, dropped out of school at fifteen to work the farm and because he got expelled for routine fighting with anyone and everyone, then ran afoul of his daddy, who gave him a choice of the Army or…the Army. He did his basic training at Fort Leonard Wood in south-central Missouri. He nearly got himself drummed from there because he still fought with anyone who looked at him cross-eyed. He also discovered a taste for bourbon that simply fueled the fires instead of quenching them. By his own admission, he was not a good person, saved from jail only because he could be legitimately violent at work. Then he crossed a staff sergeant. This man was from Montana and was twice as big and twice as mean as our hero. Raised on a cattle ranch, he, too, fled to the Army because of a parental mandate and his specialty was taking other hard cases and breaking them like horses into soldiers. Our hero thought he would reverse the process, got into a brutal fistfight with the sergeant, found himself in the stockade, drunk and disorderly, and facing dishonorable discharge and the certainty that home would not welcome him. That night at 9:57 PM, he says Jesus met him. Jesus fought him. Jesus won. That is his story and no one can tell him it did not happen. The transformation was total. He was sober, cooperative, and became a good soldier. He came home, made peace with daddy, even though that meant never being near the farm, but he became a fireman and a devoted churchman. All because of what happened at 9:57 PM on September 16, 1953.

Is that experience what we are ALL to have?

The truth is that faith begins as faith begins.

Yes, the man’s experience, colorful as it is, does mark how some folks come to faith. They meet a moment when the world, themselves, and life changes in a cataclysmic encounter with God.

But, no, it is not the only means by which Christ gathers in his flock. Other folks grow into it over years, decades, and lifetimes. An awakening is as gradual as the shift from winter into spring. It evolves, develops, and captures every moment of a person’s journey through life, for whom the encounter with Christ is not singular, but life itself–in this stream, the transformation is like that of a stone that falls into a river–over years, its roughness becomes smooth, its edges become round, and its dullness becomes polished.

St. Augustine stands as an exemplar of this latter form of life with Christ. He refused to be baptized until he declared himself too old for sinning, as he revealed in his “Confessions.” He knew of Christ, but put off fully entering Christ until he felt he had matured, lived, and grown into being the man of Christ he might be. Christ waited for him. Then, look what happened–a self-affirmed scoundrel and no-account became consumed with the proclamation and delineation of faith, becoming one of its greatest teachers and voices.

One experience does not trump the other. Both are legitimate. Our own tradition embraces them. Look at baptism–we baptize infants, setting them to sail on a life’s discovery of what that event means and is; but we will also baptize an adult never before baptized who has had a sudden awakening like Paul. We bless them both as children of God.

The Damascus Road, then, is not an exclusive mandate for how we enter Christ’s presence, revealing one, absolute required experience before one can claim legitimacy within the community of faith, be it either a particular, specific moment; or a gradual evolution of life and thought.

But it does set before us an inescapable truth about what being in Christ’s presence means for us.

We will be changed.

Encountering Christ means seeing the world through new eyes, meeting the world with a different heart, and working through life with a reoriented mind. Encountering Christ means discovering the depth of love that God has for us. “See what love the Father has for us, that we should be called children of God…,” wrote John to the churches. In Christ, God claims us from the world, from who and what we are, and from all the separates us from God, claiming as God’s own sons and daughters.

As that encounter takes root within us, it changes us. For the soldier, it caught him out in his violent inability to find his place within the world. He changed. For St. Augustine, it was a lifetime spent knowing God was there, but keeping God at arm’s length until he was ready for God to be with him. His change was gradual and God waited for it to run its course.

As we gather today in the presence of Christ, we need to consider both entrances into faith, seeing the truth of the Damascus Road before us. Ask this question–”Am I ready and willing to change?” We cannot remain as we are, even if we are lifelong followers of Christ–even being faithful becomes changed through Christ. Paul was nothing if not faithful before the Damascus Road, devoted to God, but his vision was irrevocably changed–thank God–because he had been blinded by his own devotion. Change is hard. Change is never something to be taken lightly. Change can hurt. Therefore, as we face Christ and the inevitability of change, we need to go with eyes wide open–we cannot assume anything, and we need to be ready to completely change who and what we are. Paul literally lost his sight (momentarily) until he could see clearly. Are we ready for that?

Finally, a word of counsel–our experience is our experience, we cannot force it on another, but only share it as our experience. Someone else will experience their own encounter in their own way. We are not called to judge one another’s experience, but rather embrace one another as fellow travelers, helping one another along the way. In such an approach, we deepen all experiences, for we discover the wonder of God’s broadness and power to reach us as we are.

Thank God for God’s saving grace that is not limited by a narrow practice or expectation, but meets us as we are, where we are, and how we are.

Amen.