Have mercy on me, O God,
because of your unfailing love.
Because of your great compassion,
blot out the stain of my sins.
Wash me clean from my guilt.
Purify me from my sin.
For I recognize my rebellion;
it haunts me day and night.
Against you, and you alone, have I sinned;
I have done what is evil in your sight.
You will be proved right in what you say,
and your judgment against me is just.
For I was born a sinner –
yes, from the moment my mother conceived me.
But you desire honesty from the womb,
teaching me wisdom even there.
Purify me from my sins, and I will be clean;
wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.

Have mercy on me, O God… Have mercy.

It’s the last thing I remember before I got sick [two weeks ago]. “Lord, have mercy…” The choir even sang it for the anthem that Sunday. Do you remember that anthem? It was Sunday before last. The first Sunday in Lent… They sang “Kyrie Eleison.” Such a beautiful anthem. It means, “Lord, Have Mercy.” And that’s what I remember. Oh, I remember it so well, I’m sorry to say… Because I looked down beside the pulpit here. You can’t see it, but there’s a little shelf here. A cup-holder, really that some kind soul made out of wood. It even matches the pulpit and the pews… Some kind person made that little shelf there so the preacher could have a drink of water… and go on preaching. (Ha! They didn’t think of that part, did they?)

I looked down there… I looked because my throat was getting a little scratchy. And I was afraid I would lose my voice. We hadn’t even finished singing the first hymn. And we were having communion… You remember. It was Sunday before last.

I looked down there… It’s a good thing I did. I usually just reach out, take the cup in my hand, and take a big gulp. And… it’s so good. Wonderful, clear, fresh-drawn ice-water from the church kitchen. Bennie and Barney see to it each Sunday.
I looked down there… And… there was a fly in it. A big one. I’d say it was on steroids, growth hormone of some kind, it was so big. And it was doing the backstroke.

It reminded me of the communion service I had with my friend Steve Meadows twenty-three years ago. I’ve told you about it before, I’m sure. It was at his church in Meadow Bridge. They had a covered dish dinner that night – the last night of the revival. And when the supper was over, we went to the upper room. The sanctuary. And we sang the hymns and read the scriptures. And I gave the sermon. And then Steve gave the invitation. And as we sang, “Let us break bread together,” Pastor Steve uncovered the bread – fresh, home-baked bread. Still warm from the oven. And then he uncovered the chalice – the wine (the Welch’s for us Methodist folk).

And from that point on, the service was different. Like no other communion service I had ever seen. For while we were still singing, Steve took the Chalice in his hands, went to the altar, and raised the chalice as if he were offering it to God. And then he slowly lowered his hands, still holding the chalice. And he carried it slowly, with great grace and dignity down to the people. And he walked all the way to the back of the church, as if he was offering the cup of life to the church.
And on the last verse of the hymn, he reappeared in the back of the church. And he carried the cup forward through the crowd and up to the altar. And he raised it up again to the cross and gently placed it back on the altar as we sang the amen. And… I was in tears. I mean, I didn’t know whether I’d be able to get through this or not. Because I had never seen anything so beautiful and so meaningful. It just… it really touched me.

And after the service, when we were clearing the altar and putting things back in order, I told him so. “Steve,” I said. “Man, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. It was just wonderful.”
And he gave me a strange sort of look. Which is not unusual. And he said, “Well… I’ve never had to do that before.”

“Never had to do what? What are you talking about?”

He said, “Well… when I took the linen from the chalice, there was a big old fly in there. In the communion cup! That’s why I did what I did. I had to get that thing out of there,” he said. “So I carried it to the back of the church. And when I got there I ran down the stairs, dumped it in the sink, rinsed the cup out with a little soap and hot water, skedaddled back up the stairs, refilled it and brought it back up here…”

I said, “What was a fly doing in the communion cup?”

It was one of those questions you wish you could snatch back as soon as you’ve said it. But it was too late. There it was. “What was that fly doing in there?” And Steve said, “The backstroke, you nitwit… How should I know?”

Twenty-three years. And there it was again my ice-water two weeks ago. A big old fly. Doing the backstroke! And I needed a drink of water in the worst way. So… while you were all passing the peace of Christ to each other, I got Ann’s attention. And I handed the whole thing to her. The cup and the fly… And she looked at it. Saw the fly in there. Flicked it out of there with her finger… and handed back to me. Isn’t that awful? Needless to say I became ill shortly thereafter.

Well… She didn’t really do that. I know she wanted to. But she didn’t. Instead she told Gena. And Gena kindly gave me her water.

It all reminds me of something that happened when I was in seminary, serving as an intern at the Aldersgate Church out on Roxboro Road. It was a beautiful Sunday morning. And we had a baptism that day. A beautiful little baby. Don’t you just love babies? It’s one of my favorite things to do – to baptize a baby. Or just be around babies. It just makes me happy. And that morning I read the scripture and Rev. Bob, the pastor, led us through the liturgy of Holy Baptism. And the baby was cooing and the parents were smiling. And the grandparents were just floating somewhere up in the clouds.

Bob said to the parents, “What name is given this child?” And they gave the name. I don’t remember what it was. Daffodil maybe. Or Daisy or something. And Pastor Bob reached down to the baptismal font beside him. And he put his hand in to scoop up a bit of water, put it on the child’s head and say, “Daffodil…” or whatever it was, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” But… something was wrong. Something was missing. It was the water! There wasn’t any water in the baptismal font. There should have been water – some nice warm water for the baby in the font. But it was empty…

He said to me, “There’s a glass of water in the pulpit.” So I took two steps to the pulpit, got the water, poured it in the font. And all was well…. I learned a lot from Pastor Bob. More than you could imagine.

But do you see? Something was missing. What he was looking for just wasn’t there.  Has that ever happened to you? You go looking for something – trying to find something. And you think you’ve found it… you think you know where it is. But it isn’t? It isn’t there. It just isn’t there…

Oh I think that’s what happened at the Temple that day. Jesus made his way to the temple mount… He’d been to a wedding. Remember? In this same chapter in the gospel — right before this says John, Jesus went to a wedding. And it happened there, too. There was no wine. People were coming to fill their cups. But there was no wine. It was gone. They didn’t have any left. You remember… It was his mother who noticed it first. And it was there (at the wedding in Cana) that Jesus performed his first miracle or gave us his first “sign,” says John. He turned the water to wine.

And then, John says, he went to the temple in Jerusalem. It was Passover week. People were coming in from all over. Making their pilgrimage – their annual trip to Jerusalem for the great festival of Passover. The holiest time of the year for God’s people. And Jesus did, too. He made his way up the temple mount in Jerusalem. And he entered the great temple. He was looking for something. What was it, I wonder? What was he looking for… What do you look for when you go to church?

Whatever it was. Whatever Jesus was looking for… whatever it was he wanted to see wasn’t there. It was missing.

Oh, don’t get me wrong there was plenty of stuff there in the Temple. Tables. Coins. Turtle doves. A few heifers. The place was packed. Running over with stuff… Worship aids. Things people needed. Really. If they wanted to worship there during the Passover they would need an offering – an animal to sacrifice on the altar. So they had pigeons for sale. Turtle doves. And heifers. An ox – people could come buy an ox to sacrifice in the Temple. And if they wanted to make a donation they could do that, too. In fact, that’s what the moneychangers were doing. They had tables set up where folks could come an exchange their everyday coins for “church money.” Because the everyday money did not say, “In God We Trust.” It said something about Caesar. The King of Rome. His picture was engraved on the coin. On every coin, mind you. And good Jewish folks didn’t care for that. And when they went to church – well, it just didn’t feel right to worship God with a graven image of some politician who thought he was god. It just wasn’t good. So they had booths – tables set up where folks could exchange their Caesar coins for church coins. For a price, I mean. It all came at a price.

But there it was at the Temple. Everything you needed to worship God was provided for you. Isn’t that something? People would be coming from far away. Traveling long distances with their families. And they didn’t have to worry about trying to find a dove or an ox or an ATM at the last minute. Because they had it all right there at the temple. Everything they would need to worship God right.
They had all the right stuff. Bulletins. Padded pews. Stained-glass windows. Robes. Pulpits and candlesticks. A pipe organ maybe. Or a big screen and projector. A sound system… You get the picture. They had it all. Everything you need to worship God right. I mean, they weren’t lacking a thing…
Or were they?

Jesus didn’t see it that way. He came into the temple. He saw what they had. He saw what they were doing. But he flew off the handle! He was livid! Angry! Jesus was so angry he turned over their tables. And he grabbed some cords and made a whip and drove them and their worship aids right out of the temple area.
He was looking for something. Jesus was looking for something at the temple that morning. What do you look for when you come to church?

Oh, Jesus was looking. He expected to find something… But it wasn’t there. Even though the place was packed. Even though they had all the right “stuff.” Something was missing. Like a wedding with no wine. Like a font without water. Like a house, a home – God’s home – without love.

Remember what the prophet Micah said about worship?
With what shall I come before the Lord
and bow down before the exalted God?
Shall I come before him with burnt offerings,
with calves a year old?
Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams,
with ten thousand rivers of olive oil?
Shall I offer my firstborn for my transgression,
the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?
He has shown all you people what is good.
And what does the Lord require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God.

That’s what Jesus was looking for. That’s what he expected to find in the House of the Lord. People acting justly. People who loved mercy. People who walked humbly with God and with others. Jesus was looking for love. But what he found instead were people taking advantage of others – especially the poor. Charging them much, much more than they could afford. Telling them that if they really wanted to worship God… if they really wanted to please the Lord… and do it up right, then they just had to have what they were offering. That isn’t love. It’s just the opposite, I think. It’s what happens we live our lives and practice our faith as if it’s all about us…

It’s like a baptismal font without any water. A wedding without any wine. And it’s like a house… a home where there is no love. For though it may be filled and overflowing, though it may have all the right stuff, without love it is empty. And so Jesus cleansed the temple, that day. He emptied the Temple so that it could be filled again with people who love. People who love the Lord their god with all their heart, soul, mind, and strength. And people who love their neighbors as themselves.

Oh, what do you see? What are you looking for when you come to church? And what do you see, church, when others come to you?

As you think about that… As you look into the temple of your heart and life, let me remind you that there is good news… even when Jesus enters the temple. And when he enters our church, our hearts, and our lives and takes a good look at what’s there. And the Good News is that Jesus still cleanses the dwelling place of his love. He still cleanses the place where God longs to be. For the scripture says, he is just consumed with passion for God’s house. Jesus loves us, but loves the righteousness, truth, and holiness of God even more. And he will purify God’s house. And transform our temples into his very Body. He will drive out the idolatry in us. He will cleanse us until we shine like the sun. He will take our church and our fumbling attempts to praise and worship, and transform them into living witness of God’s grace and love. 

A group of women gathered for Bible study. It wasn’t Lent, at the time. It was Advent, mind you. So every week they read the scriptures for each from the lectionary. It’s like a schedule — a three-year cycle of scripture readings for every Sunday of the year. And one of the readings for that coming Sunday was from Malachi — about cleansing and being made pure. It says:
But who may abide the day of his coming? and who shall stand when he appears? for he is like a refiner’s fire, and like fullers’ soap: And he shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver: and he shall purify the sons of Levi, and purge them as gold and silver, that they may offer unto the Lord an offering in righteousness. (That their worship may be pleasing to God.)

Well… they weren’t really sure what that meant. I mean, what does a thing like that say about God? They had always believed in a God who is loving and kind… like the image of God in the 103rd psalm — the one that says: The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love…  But Malachi the prophet didn’t say anything like that. The scriptures for that Sunday talked about separating the chaff from the wheat, and cutting away deadwood, and holding people to the fire, for heaven’s sake. What does that have to do with Jesus? What does that have to do with a God who loves us?
Well, a funny thing happened. One of the women offered to find out what she could about this process of refining silver. So she called a silversmith and made an appointment to visit his shop and watch him work. She didn’t tell him she was doing research for her bible study group. She just told him she was interested in learning about the process.

So the next day she drove out to the silversmith’s place. And she watched him work. And this is what he did. He held a piece of silver with something like tongs over the fire and let it heat up. And he said, “When you’re refining silver, you have to hold it in the middle of the fire. ‘Cause it’s hottest there,” he said. “So if you want to burn away all the impurities — all the stuff that isn’t pure silver,” he said, “that’s where you have to put it.”

And she thought about that — about God holding us to the fire. Putting us in the hot spot. And she remembered the verse from Malachi that said, “He sits as a refiner and purifier of silver.” And she said, “Do you have to sit there in front of the fire the whole time? Until the silver’s purified?”

“Yes. The whole time,” he said. “And I don’t just have to sit here and hold the silver. I have to keep my eyes on it the whole time it’s in the fire,” he said. Because if the silver’s left even a moment too long in the flames, it will be destroyed.”
And the woman was silent. She sat there watching him, holding the silver under his steady gaze. And then she asked one more question. She said, “How do you know when the silver is fully refined?” And he smiled and said, “Oh, that’s easy,” he said. “I know it’s refined when I can see my image in it.”

I wonder… When God looks at you… when God looks at me… when God looks at us together as the church… does he see his image?

Have mercy on us, O God,
because of your unfailing love.
Because of your great compassion,
blot out the stain of our sins.
Wash us clean from our guilt…
Purify us from our sins, and we will be clean;
wash us, and we shall be whiter than snow.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Soli Deo Gloria
Benen, OblSB

There was a window in the church [the church I was raised in, in Wayne West Virginia] that stood right above the choir. And there in stained glass was a beautiful picture of Jesus. And he was reaching out with his arms, ready to welcome and receive and embrace anyone who would come. And around the picture, around the arch, were some words that were just as lovely. And just as inviting. Beautiful words from the Gospel of Matthew…

Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. 

Beautiful words. Tender, grace-filled, life-giving words…

I don’t remember her name. (Isn’t that awful? Sometimes I have to stop and think just to remember my own.) But she was a young woman, in her late thirties, I would guess. And she had decided to postpone her career just long enough to raise her children and see them off to school. So in those early years she was at home. A lot. And something about the words weary and heavy laden (or overburdened, as it says in some bibles) sound strangely familiar to the parents of young children. Conjures up images of home, oddly enough… images of their own homes. And in this woman’s home there were eight of them. Eight little children.

They lived in a little village called Darlington in northeastern corner of Maryland. Eight children. All in one house, mind you. And she had to leave them there for an hour or two while she went to pick up a few groceries, she said. [Though, I’m not sure anyone with eight kids at home could pick up just a few groceries.] But she went. She told the oldest boy, who was about thirteen, that he was in charge. Most thirteen year olds think they’re in charge already. But just in case, she reminded him on her way out the door.

And she went to the grocery store and looked around, taking her time… “No hurry,” she thought. “I’ll just enjoy a little peace and quiet here in the frozen foods, and sample the cheese balls, and enjoy the fresh scent of Laundry detergent and bathroom air fresheners. And she did. It was like the twenty-third psalm, resting beside the still cantaloupes, her head anointed with the sound of music wafting down from the speakers up above. And when it was time to go back into the shadowy valley of chaos and destruction she called home, she was not afraid… Until she opened the door that led from the garage through the pantry and into the kitchen. For, when she did, she noticed that it was a bit quieter than usual. A little too quiet, mind you.

She peeped around the corner and into the living room. And there she beheld five of her little darlings sitting in a circle. So, she put the groceries aside on the kitchen table, walked into the living room where they had gathered, and saw them playing with five of the cutest, most adorable little skunks you’ve ever seen.

Oh, the peace and serenity of her time alone in the grocery store just went right down the chute. And the poor woman screamed “Run, children, run!” And each child, in a panic, grabbed a skunk and ran in five different directions. Bowls of popcorn, tumblers full of red Kool-Aid, magazines, chairs, untied shoes, and half-eaten Sloppy-Joe sandwiches just went every which way. And the worst part of it all is the poor woman’s screams scared the kids so much that each one of them squeezed their skunks. Which, of course, made the skunks panic. The poor things thought they were goners. And when skunks feel that they are in danger… well, you know what they do. They bow their humble little heads and say, “Let us spray…” And they did. They did. It was chaos. Bedlam. Sheer mayhem it was. And the stink was on them like grease on grandma’s skillet. All the bubble bath in the world couldn’t cover it up.

That was on Saturday. The next morning was Sunday. And for once, the whole family sat in the same pew…

Oh, if only that poor woman could get away from it all… To some quiet, peaceful, place of retreat. Beside the still waters where her soul could find rest…. if only for a day. Or an hour. Some quiet refuge. A shelter from the storm.

Oh come, says Jesus.

Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

Church was like that for me when I was little. It was a peaceful place. A quiet refuge. Away from the chaos and confusion. Away from all the busyness of the world. Especially on Communion Sundays when we knelt before the altar with warm, kind-hearted, loving people on either side. So close you could smell their aftershave and perfume and feel their touch. And the pastor would touch my shoulder or pat me on the head as he offered the bread and wine of holy communion. It was a place where I felt loved and accepted. And that’s what mattered. That’s what made the difference for me.

And one of the clearest, most vivid memories I have of those years is about going to another place like that. Only it wasn’t a church or a chapel, mind you. It was the pond. A fishing pond in Elmwood. Right next to house that I had lived in all my life… until I was six.

What I remember about that place is that every time we had Communion at church, I would go home and change into my favorite sweatshirt — the one my Dad brought home from Colorado State — and some old blue jeans. And I’d sneak into the kitchen and put a slice or two of Heiner’s bread into my dad’s lunchbox. And I’d pour some grape juice from the refrigerator into his thermos. And I’d carry it over to Ferguson pond with Mitzi, my Beagle. And we would sit there together on a little wooden bridge. I’d tear off a little piece of bread and dunk it in the grape juice and say, “Mitzi, this is the body of Christ broken for you.”

Mitzi was one of those beagles that are so kind to little boys and go along with them, no matter what. So she would take it from my hand and gobble it up. And then I would tear off a little piece for me. And I’d tell myself the same thing — that this was the body and blood of Jesus our Lord.

And it didn’t feel like playing church or pretending or a make believe thing to me. Because we’d sit on the bridge and look out over the pond. And as silly as it sounds, I’d try to see if I could hear him somewhere or see him, maybe, up in the clouds, or across the pond. Because my grandma always said, “Whenever two or three gathered in Jesus’ name, he is there with them.” And I didn’t see him, mind you, or hear his voice. But I can remember sitting there thinking “He’s gotta be here somewhere. Jesus has to be here somewhere.” Because I just had that feeling. You know the feeling. That you’re not alone — in a good way, I mean. The way you feel when it’s dark and dreary, and maybe just a little scary, and then you realize that they’re home (your parents), they’re with you. And they love you. They do.

I wouldn’t tell anyone about that for the longest time. Because I thought they would think I was being foolish or stupid. And then I found out that Jesus did the same thing. Not with the Heiner’s bread and a beagle by his side. But he went to a place that was like that. He went to a place where he could be alone with God. A place where his soul could find rest.

It’s one of the first things Mark tells us about him in his gospel – the Gospel according to St. Mark… He was baptized. That’s the first thing Mark has to say about Jesus. Baptized in the Jordan by John the Baptizer. And the heavens were torn open and the Spirit came down and a voice from above said, “You are my Son.” That’s the first thing Mark wants us to know about Jesus.

And then, while he’s still dripping wet from the waters of baptism, that same Holy Spirit just thrust Jesus into the wilderness for forty days where he was tempted and tried… like the people of Israel hundreds of years before him when they were tempted and tried in another wilderness for forty long years.

And after that he called people to follow him and be his disciples. On the Sabbath, as you heard last Sunday, he went to church – to the synagogue in Capernaum. And he opened the scriptures and cast out a demon. Remember the man who started yelling at him in church?
So it had been a busy day for Jesus already. Hadn’t even had Sunday dinner yet. (Or Sabbath dinner, I guess it was then.) So after the service and all the commotion with the man who was possessed by the unclean spirit, they went home. To Simon Peter’s home. Which was not far from there.

But when they got there they found Peter’s mother-in-law in bed with a fever. And… you know what happened. Jesus took her by the hand and lifted her up. And when he did, the fever left her and she was well — so well, in fact, that she waited on them hand and foot. (I can just hear my mother-in-law. “Isn’t that just like a bunch of men,” she’d say. “They can’t do a thing for themselves. Couldn’t even let that poor woman rest.” As if they had Jesus heal her just so she could fix them their dinner!) Ah, but it said something. It was a message, a sermon without words… just like the man with the unclean spirit who was made whole. “Nothing can separate you from God’s love. Not even a fever. Not even illness and suffering and pain. God’s love is so great that he won’t let anything keep you from serving him.”

That’s was the message. That’s what Jesus was preaching in his words and his actions. He was spreading good news, touching lives that were broken and making them whole. And the thing that gets me is there were so many people who needed that touch. So many people who needed the grace and the wholeness Jesus came to deliver.

Mark says there were so many of them that by sunset that evening the whole town was gathered there at the door. And Jesus spent the evening touching and healing and casting out demons. Can you imagine?  My mother, the nurse, used to come home from the hospital exhausted — drained and weary and just plain worn out. And Jesus was God in the flesh, mind you. But he was human, too. Just like one of us. And there were so many people and so much to do — so many hearts and lives that were battered and broken…

Mark wants us to know that about Jesus. Right off the bat. But there’s something else he wants us to know before we even get through the first chapter… For the very next morning, well before daylight, Jesus got up and he went away from the house, and away from the crowds, and away from the noise and the chaos and all the things that just had to be done, to a quiet, lonely, deserted place. And he prayed… Jesus prayed. He went to some quiet, peaceful, place of retreat. Beside the still waters of God’s presence where his soul could find rest. 

And later that morning, when the sun came up, they couldn’t find him. So everyone started looking for Jesus. Because people were waiting. They wanted to see him. And do you know where they found him? They found Jesus praying. “Everybody’s trying to find you,” they said. And Jesus said, “It’s time to go. We need to move on so I can preach the good news in other communities. Because that’s why I’m here.”

It always amazes me to think how many people went out to see Jesus. The whole town was there when he went to Peter’s that day. And later on, in the second chapter, Mark says there were so many people crowding in and around the house that no one could get near him. So four of them carried their friend up to the top of the house and made a hole in the roof just to get their friend to him. And at the lakeshore one day he healed and taught and touched more than five thousand people (not counting all the women and children there, mind you). And then he fed them. Every last one of them. And on the other side of the lake, Mark says he was with four thousand people. And it was probably twice that many, because they only counted the men! It just amazes me that Jesus could do that — that he could serve and love and preach to so many people, with or without words, without a vacation! Without any time off. Without any rest! But then I remember — he did find rest. His soul found rest in God alone.

Albert Schweitzer, who was pretty busy himself, used to say, “If your soul has no Sunday, it becomes an orphan.” You know what he meant. If your soul has no Sunday, no Sabbath, no time to rest with God in prayer, then you’re… you’re just sunk. [Or sinking.] But for those who will make the effort to set aside some time just to be with God. Well, you heard what Isaiah said…

The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless. Even youths will faint and be weary, and the young will fall exhausted; but they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings as eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.

That’s his promise. To you and to me. Our souls find rest in God alone. For God is our strength. God is our help. God is our salvation, our hope, our wellspring, our fount. And Jesus our brother, God-in-the-flesh, invites us to come away with him to a quiet place that we may find rest and be restored and renewed so that we might be able to spread the good news of God’s love to others…

A long time ago, on St. John’s Island, just off the coast of South Carolina, some people from Africa who’d been labeled and sold as slaves were working hard in the scorching sun picking cotton. And there was a young woman there with her little boy beside her. He was six, maybe seven, years old. Out there in the hot sun. And his mother was working the fields, just working away. With one hand she picked the cotton and with the other she would caress the child’s forehead. But after a while, she grew weary. She was exhausted and thirsty and weary to the bone. And the sun and the heat made it worse. And she fell down from the weight and the weariness of being abused and enslaved. And the boy tried to wake her up. Because he knew what would happen if the slave drivers saw her. They’d make an example of her and beat her and who knows what else.

So he tried to shake her and wake her up. And an old man came over to him. An old man the Africans called Preacher, but the slave drivers called him Old Devil. And the boy looked up at the old man and he said, “Is it time? Is it time?”

And the old man smiled and he looked at the boy and said, “Yes!” And then he bent down and whispered into the young woman’s ear who was there on the ground. And he said the words: “Cooleebah! Cooleebah!”

And at that very moment the boy’s mother got up. And she stood straight and tall, full of dignity. She stood like a great queen and she looked down at her son, took his hand in hers and looked up toward heaven. And all of a sudden they begin to fly.

The slave drivers rush over and they see the slaves flying and they’re confused. They don’t know what to do! And while they’re standing there befuddled, the old man turns around to all the other Africans and begins to tell them, “Cooleebah! Cooleebah!” And when they hear the word, they all begin to fly. Can you imagine? The slaves flying? The weak and the weary? The bruised and the broken? People weighed down and wounded — people treated like garbage, used up and thrown out — these people are flying? And at that moment the slave drivers grab the old man and say, “Bring them back!”

They take him and beat him. And with blood trickling down his cheek, he just smiles at them. And they say to him, “Please bring them back!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because the word is already in them and since the word is already in them, it cannot be taken from them.” 

The old man had a word from West Africa. Cooleebah. A word that means God. And that word had been placed into the heart of these displaced Africans. God had been placed into their hearts. And now they had dignity and strength.

They would tell this story, this parable, and pass it along among the slaves. And when they told the story, they would repeat the words of Isaiah: The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless. Even youths will faint and be weary, and the young will fall exhausted; but they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings as eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.

[Oh, my soul finds rest in God alone. He is my strength and my salvation… One thing God has spoken, two things have I heard: that you, O God, are strong, and that you, O Lord, are loving.]

What about you? Are you weary and wounded? Is your heart weighed down with grief or worry? Are you broken and bruised in your heart — in your spirit? Jesus invites you to spend time with him. To pray and feed on his Word. He invites you to come — Come all who are weary and heavy-laden. And what does he say? I will give you …. rest.

In the name of the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Soli Deo Gloria
Benen, OblSB

The Presentation of Christ at the Temple

Ordinarily, on a day like today, I would tell you a little story about that. Maybe something that happened at Beverly Hills, or Beaver, or Blue Jay. But I can’t do that this morning. It just wouldn’t fit. Wouldn’t say what needs to be said. So let me tell you about something that happened somewhere else. A little closer to home. In a little place called South Charleston… To some people who looked awfully familiar – though I won’t name any names.

It was four years ago — four years and one week or so — on a Sunday evening, as I recall, just two days before Christmas. Some of your fellow parishioners – maybe a dozen or so – gathered downstairs in the fellowship hall to do what good Christian people have done for centuries just before Christmas… To crawl into a crowded van, drive around in the dark, and then stand outside somebody’s house in the freezing cold and hurl Christmas carols at them with their voices. Caroling, they call it. Which according to Webster’s dictionary means – and I’m not making this up — “to praise in or as if in song.” Sounds like Mr. Webster knew a little something about Christmas caroling, doesn’t it?

But that’s what we did. We went Christmas caroling. And it was the perfect night for it, too. The moon was full and bright and the stars were shining. The air was crisp and cold — a lot colder than I thought it would be, I’m sorry to say. And everyone had “donned their gay apparel” — Santa Claus hats and gloves and mittens and things that light up with flashing lights.

It’s a wonderful thing to stand on someone’s front lawn and sing about Christmas and the birth of our Lord. And what’s even more wonderful than singing, I think, is seeing the smiles and the glow and the sparkle in the eyes of the people you sing to – those who hear the glad tidings of great joy in these wonderful carols they’ve heard from the time they were children. And with the starlight, and the moon nearly full, and not a cloud in the sky, it was easy to see the look in their eyes and the joy on their faces. It is a wonderful thing – full of joy and love and Christmas.

Everything was lovely that evening – like a Norman Rockwell painting, except for the horse and sleigh gliding over the snow. It was great.

Mike would park the church van. We’d gather on the sidewalk or in someone’s front yard. Claire would go to the door and knock, or ring the bell. And we would watch and wait for someone to appear. And Gena would lead us in singing the carols, the great songs of Christmas.

Claire ran up to the door of one house when everyone was in place. She knocked at the door, but nobody answered. She knocked again, a little louder this time. And we waited and watched. But no one came. So she knocked again. And the door opened. Not the door she had knocked on, mind you, but the neighbor’s door. And a man appeared who had donned his gay apparel, but had cast it off, I think. He didn’t just come to the door, he came all the way out. Stood in the driveway wearing less than most of us would on a hot summer’s day.  He was sporting a small pair of trousers – I believe they’re called boxers. And the rest of him was clad in pretty much the same thing he was wearing the day he was born, which went right along with one of the carols we sang – the one, you know, that says “word of the Father, now in flesh appearing.”

The amazing thing to me was this man was not cold! I think maybe for the same reason the wind shield washer in your car still works when it’s only twenty-two degrees outside. He was not cold… or very modest, at all, from what I could tell. He was just standing there out-of-doors in late December with the moon and the stars brightly shining. And there were a dozen or so people right in front of him, almost. So he struck up a conversation.

“You folks Christmas caroling?”

“Yes.”

“That’s nice. Is my boy over there?”

“Nope. He’s not with us.”

“I thought it was my boy. I’ve been watching for him. He’s supposed to be coming in tonight.”

“That’s nice.”

“And you say my boy’s not over there?”

“No sir. Haven’t seen him.”

I don’t know where the man’s son was. Maybe he was coming home from school for the holidays. Or maybe he’d just run out for some pizza, or some sodas, or some clothes for his father. But, his father was waiting and watching.

We weren’t that far away from Good Shepherd, you know, down on fifth avenue. [The funeral home in our town.] And I was thinking, why don’t we just go on down there. Because I’m ready to go now, Lord. Just take me now… because I’ve seen it all, Lord. There’s nothing more left to see.

It’s what Simeon said at the temple that day in the second chapter of Luke. “Lord, I’m ready. I can go now, Lord. I’ve seen all there is to see.” Well, maybe that isn’t exactly what he said, but it’s awfully close. For what he said was,

• Lord, now let your servant go in peace;
•    your word has been fulfilled:
• my own eyes have seen the salvation
•    which you have prepared
• in the presence of all people,
•    a light for revelation to the nations
• and the glory of your people Israel.

He was like some of the people we sang to that night. He’d been watching and waiting. Keeping an eye out for someone who would someday walk through the door and take his place where he belonged. The truth is he was waiting for a son. But not just any son, mind you. Not even his own. No, Simeon was waiting and watching for God’s Son. The Messiah. The Anointed One. The Christ.  Every day, says  Luke, he was there in the temple watching and waiting for him to walk through the gates, take his rightful place, and deliver his people from sin and death.

But it wasn’t just Simeon. There was a woman there, too. A prophet, she was. An eighty-four year-old prophet of God who came to live there in the Temple. Her name was Anna — it means “favor” or “grace.” And she graced the temple night and day, says Luke. She never left it, never went home, but she was there day and night, fasting and praying and listening for God – for that still, small voice of God that speaks to the heart.

Simeon and Anna, both of them old and wise. Both watching and waiting. Luke says it was the Spirit who brought them there. The same Holy Spirit that came to Mary, the mother of Jesus, led them to the temple (just as the star would lead the wise men to find him in a little town called Bethlehem). The Spirit spoke to Simeon’s heart in wordless whispers with the assurance that he would see the Christ, the Messiah of God. So there he was in the temple waiting and watching for the Son of God…

But lots of people came to the temple. Every day somebody new would walk through those doors. Travelers would come to worship and pray and make their offering to God. The priests would come, and the teachers of the law. And every day families would come – parents with young children. Newborn babies to be blessed and marked as God’s own. They’d come from all over. From every corner of every town and every village in the land. And every day Anna and Simeon were watching and waiting.

One day, says Luke, a young woman came with her husband from the old city of David, a backwater village called Bethlehem, “the House of Bread.” And in their arms was a child – a little boy. Like so many others, they brought him to the temple to be set apart as holy, because that was the way of God’s people then. Every firstborn male was to be set apart. Made holy. It was like being baptized in a way, for the child was given a name and claimed by God to be one of his own.

So the young mother and her husband brought the little boy into the temple. And just as they were about to do what they had come there to do, Simeon took the child in his arms. And he lifted him up and thanked God with all his heart. And he said, “Now, Lord… Now you can let me go. For I’ve seen all I ever wanted to see.”

• Lord, now let your servant go in peace;
•    your word has been fulfilled:
• my own eyes have seen the salvation
•    which you have prepared
• in the presence of all people.

You know them, this couple. Mary and Joseph of Nazareth, and the infant Jesus… A carpenter and a teenage mother with her wee little baby.  Ordinary people from an ordinary little village. Simeon saw people like that every day at the temple. These folk weren’t dressed in fine linen and silk, or adorned with diamonds and rubies, or silver and gold. They were just plain, common, everyday people. Working class folk. A carpenter, mind you, and a young homemaker with a baby who had for his cradle a manger. A feed box. With hay for his bedding… You can’t get any more ordinary than that.

And yet, Simeon saw him and he knew. “There he is. This is the one. This is the one we’ve been waiting for. This child is the Light of the World, the One who will save God’s people from sin and death, and bring Light and Life to all of God’s children.” And right then and there he lifted up his voice and sang praise to God. “I’ve seen it, Lord. I’ve seen your salvation.”

Joseph and Mary were amazed, says Luke. How did he know? What did he see? “This child will do great and wonderful things for the people of God,” said Simeon. But how did he know that? What made the difference for him? And while they were still wondering how Simeon knew this, the prophet Anna came. And she praised God, too, for this wonderful gift. And then she turned to all who were longing for God’s glory and grace, to all who yearned for God’s presence and peace, and she told them about the baby — this little child named Jesus.

So you see, Anna and Simeon were waiting for this. They’d been keeping an eye out for the One who would come. But not just the physical eye. They had been watching with other eyes. Deeper eyes. The eyes of the heart and the eyes of the Spirit. The kind of eyes that are opened through prayer and worship, through hearing the scriptures. Eyes that are opened wider and wider as we learn to love and serve and care for other people.

Oh, but that kind of vision doesn’t come overnight. It takes time. A lifetime, I think, John Wesley would say. Maybe that’s why an old man and an eighty-four year old prophet were the first to see him,  I mean really see him that day in the temple. Because they had devoted themselves to a lifetime of prayer. A lifetime of seeing other people as they really are, and not just as the world teaches us to see them.

Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy!

So keep your eyes open. Not just these [physical] eyes, mind you. But the deeper eyes, the hidden eyes — the eyes of the heart. The eyes that are opened through love and prayer, through giving and serving. Because a wonderful thing happens when we do. We begin to see more and more clearly that Jesus is here. Right here, I mean…. He comes to us through the young families all around us struggling to make a way in this world. He comes through the children. And he comes through older people around us — our own Annas and Simeons. He even comes in the least likely places through the least likely people we can imagine. But the good news is Jesus is here — the One who brings light and life to God’s people on earth is here. And our eyes can see him, too.

Do you remember Mister Rogers, from Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood? Mister Rogers’ name was Fred. He was an ordained minister in the Presbyterian Church. And he was a friend to everyone who knew him, especially all the children who grew up watching him on TV.

Some years ago, Mister Rogers made a trip to California. And while he was there, he decided to visit a fan – a boy with cerebral palsy. At first, the boy was really nervous. Just to think that Mister Rogers had come him was just overwhelming. And it made the boy so nervous that he got mad at himself. He started hating himself and even hitting himself. And he was so upset and so agitated, his mother had to take him into another room so he could calm down.

Mister Rogers waited patiently. And when the boy finally returned, Mister Rogers said, “I‘d like to ask you to do something for me. Would you do something for me?” And on his computer, the boy answered, “Yes.”

Mister Rogers said, “I would like to ask you to pray for me. Will you pray for me?”

The boy was stunned. No one had ever asked him to do that before. No one had ever asked him for anything like that. He had always been the one people prayed for. He had always been the subject of prayer. Ah, but now he was being asked to pray for someone else… for Mister Rogers, himself! And even though he didn’t know at first if he could do it, he said he would. He’d try his best.

And he did. He did. From that day on the boy kept Mister Rogers in his prayers. And he never talked about hating himself and hurting himself, he never talked about wanting to die after that. Because he figured Mister Rogers was really close to God. And if Mister Rogers liked him, well… that must mean that God liked him, too.

Someone asked Fred Rogers how he knew what to say to make the boy feel better. And do you know what he said? He said, “Make him feel better? – Oh, heavens no!” he said. “You’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t ask him for his prayers for his sake; I asked him for mine. I asked him to pray for me because I just knew that anyone who has gone through all he’s gone through must be very close to God. I asked him because Jesus loves him. And Jesus is with him.”

It’s what happens when we watch and wait in prayer and worship. It’s what happens to us when we open our hearts and hands to love and serve the people around us. We begin to see with deeper eyes, the eyes of the heart and the eyes of the Spirit. And like Mister Rogers and Simeon and Anna the prophet our eyes are opened to see Jesus in others.

So keep an eye out. Look for him in the world around you. Because something wonderful happens when we do. We begin to see more and more that Jesus is here. And he is. Jesus is here. Jesus is here…

• Lord, now let your servant go in peace;
•    your word has been fulfilled:
• my own eyes have seen the salvation
•    which you have prepared
• in the presence of all people,
•    a light for revelation to the gentiles 
• and the glory of your people Israel.

This is the word which is given for you. Amen.

In this holy season of watching and waiting, of hope unfolding and love made known, I’ve been thinking of the strong and tender mother of our Lord. We know so little of her life, and yet she seems so close, so full of love and hope for all of us. For she is one of us — a humble, simple, ordinary soul.

Unnoticed by the world was she, until the angel-messenger of God appeared and greeted her with that most extraordinary greeting: “Hail, you who are highly favored. God has chosen you and calls you now to bear a gift of light and love to all who walk within this darkened world.” But she was not a head of state, a queen enthroned in power and grace. Nor was the mother of our Lord a woman known for wisdom, wealth, or worldly goods. She was but an ordinary young woman, if one so young can be called a woman. A child of tender age was she. Innocent, unknowing, and unknown by any man. But Gabriel, the ancient angel-messenger of the Lord appeared to her and said, “The gift you carry, the child you bear is a holy child, the only Son of God. And God has called and chosen you to bear him to the world.”

Others have been called, you know. So many others have been chosen, called and commandeered to bear the word of God. And so many others responded with fear and doubt and dread. “I am unworthy, Lord. I am a man of unclean lips. I am too young. I am too old. I am but a youth.” Peter said, “Depart from me, I am a sinful man.” And Saul of Tarsus, blinded by the Light, could not see how a persecutor of the Church could ever serve this one called Christ.

Mary did not turn away. She did not say, “Lord, I cannot.” But when she asked, “How can this be?” the angel-messenger of our Lord simply reminded her that God is God… and nothing is impossible with God. And hearing that, Mary responded, “I am the servant of the Lord. Let it be with me according to your word.” Later, on that holy night, Jesus was born in Bethlehem — born of Mary, the servant-mother of our Lord.

You, like Mary, are highly favored. God has called and chosen you to bear the Christ into this world. God calls you to carry Christ, the precious gift of God’s unfailing love, to all the world around you.

“May the glad tidings of Christmas be yours on this holy night. Exult in the child’s birth. Wonder at the depth of God’s love. And rejoice in a simple majesty that is God’s way to be with us.” –

I’ve been thinking about angels this week. About that lovely old carol and the angels of Christmas and Advent. This season of watching and waiting, when people are longing to hear some word from the Lord. News of his coming. Or some sign of his presence and the peace that only he can bring.

There’s another old carol I’ve been hearing again and again… in my mind. “There are angels hovering round,” it says. And it goes on to say that the angels have come to sing in harmony… to the shepherds on their knees… of the child in Mary’s arms. Oh, there are angels, there are angels hovering round. Which is what Luke said in his gospel. When Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, there were angels hovering round…

First, says Luke, an angel of the Lord named Gabriel came to Zechariah the Priest. He came to tell him that he and Elizabeth would have a son. (We know him as John the Baptist, of course). But it was strange news for a couple who were up in years. It sounded impossible. That a man and woman would have  a child – their first child — in their old age. But that was the message of the angel who came to Zechariah when he was in the holy place of the Temple. At worship, mind you. When the people were waiting to hear a word from the Lord.

And then, Luke tells us, that same angel, Gabriel, appeared to a young woman who was barely more than a child. A young teenager, mind you… And only months later, says Luke, there were shepherds in the hills tending their flocks as shepherds had done for generations before them. But that night there were angels. Messengers. Hovering round. Watching over God’s flock. Tending God’s sheep. And one of the angel’s came to the shepherds to deliver a message. To bring “good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people.” X

A little boy did that one year at the annual Christmas pageant at church. I mean, he was one of the angels. The one that gets to pop in out of nowhere and just scare the daylights out of the poor shepherds with a voice that sounds like James Earl Jones… I mean, if James Earl Jones was six years old, I’m sure that’s what he would sound like.

So the little boy was ready to “bend near the earth on hovering wing” — or glitter-glued, whichever it was – and announce the news that “unto them,” (these poor frightened shepherds) and the whole wide world, “a Savior was born.”  It was the news they’d been waiting for. For four hundred years. Oh, they had been waiting just for this… Not the kids in the Christmas Pageant. No… it just felt that way to them.

And during all of that waiting – which can be really hard for people at this stage in life – the boy had been practicing his line: Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy!  For weeks he’d been practicing. And people helped him. Coached him… Isn’t that what they call it? The boy had his own acting coaches. His grandparents, mind you. And any time and every time the family got together, they would dress him up in his costume. And he would rehearse his part for them: “Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy.” And they were all convinced, of course, that the kid had a future in this business. Another George Clooney, they thought, he was so good.

And finally after “four hundred years” of waiting, or whatever it was, the great night came. And everybody was in place for the pageant of all pageants. Grandparents and parents, aunts and uncles, and cousins… And all the visitors from the community…  And the children were in their costumes. Bathrobes for the three kings and glittery, gold wings with coat hanger-halos for the angels. And all the mothers were excited. And a little nervous, I think. Because this was it. What they’d been waiting for. It was all for this.

And it was wonderful. Really. Kids who had not spoken their lines correctly one time in rehearsal — from the day they started practicing till that very night — got it right! Every word! Every detail! It  was just unbelievable… A thing like that just doesn’t seem possible. But there it was.

And the lowly shepherds were keeping watch over their cardboard sheep by night. And suddenly… he appeared. The angel-kid, ready to say, “Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy.” Which he would have, I’m sure… if only he could have remembered the words! But… he couldn’t. For the life of him, he just couldn’t.

So there he was… the spotlight shining right on him. And every grandparent and every uncle and aunt and out-of-town visitor in the place was sitting on the edge of their seat, not even daring so much as to breathe. All of them just willing the words to pop in to this poor kid’s brain and come out of his mouth. And he tried. Oh, he tried so hard to remember. But the words just wouldn’t come. And finally, in a moment of great heroism, he filled his lungs with breath and just blurted out the words: “Boy… have I got news for you!” 

Have I got news for you…

That’s what it means you know… when the scriptures say “tidings.” It means news. It means message. And that’s what angels do. They are messengers. Angelos it is in the Greek of the New Testament. Bringers of the word who come with news from God. A message to be delivered.  They’re evangelists, in a way. You can even hear it in the word. Evangelist. Look closely and you’ll see it there. The word angel within the word “evangelist.”

And that’s what they are. They’re like Martin Luther and John Wesley. They’re like Billy Graham and Fred Craddock and Will Willimon. Or like the Sunday School teacher who taught you about Jesus. Or the friend who was always there for you, no matter what. Or the loving grandmother who a became model of God’s kindness and love. And the funny thing is… they were  the ones who were speaking and acting. But somehow the word, the message, the news they brought to you came from God. A word from his heart to yours through these messengers.

Do you remember what it says in Hebrews 13 about angels? Oh, sometimes, it says, we entertain angels without even knowing it. Like the homeless man Tony Campolo ran into on Chestnut Street in Philadelphia one morning. You know the story… Tony said he was just walking along, and there he was. Some homeless man. And the guy was covered with dirt and soot from head to toe. And there was stuff caked on his skin. And he had a beard that hung down to his waist, nearly. With part of his breakfast, or something, sticking in it. And the man was holding a big Styrofoam cup in his hand. The lip of it was smudged from his dirty mouth. And as he staggered toward him, Tony said the man seemed to be staring into his cup. But all of a sudden the man looked up. At him. And said, “Hey, mister! You want some of my coffee?”

“Well, no,” he thought. “I really don’t… who would?” But for some reason, he said, he just knew that the right thing to do was to accept the man’s generosity. So Tony heard himself say, “Sure. I’ll take a sip.” (And he did!)

And as he handed the cup back to him, Tony said, “You’re pretty generous, aren’t you, giving away your coffee? What’s gotten into you today to make you so generous?”

And the homeless man looked straight into his eyes and said, “Well… the coffee was especially delicious this morning. And I figure if God gives you something good, you ought to share it with other people!”

Tony thought, “Oh, man… this guy set me up. This is going to cost me five dollars. Five dollars! One sip of coffee!” So Tony looked at the homeless man and said, “I suppose there’s something I can do for you in return, isn’t there?”

And the man nodded, “You can give me a hug.” And at that point Tony says he would have gladly given him five dollars or more! But  he said, “The guy put his arms around me and I put my arms around him. And all of a sudden I realized something. This guy wasn’t going to let me go!” People were passing them there on the sidewalk. They were staring at him. (At Tony.) Because there he was dressed in his starched white shirt, wearing a coat and tie, hugging this dirty, filthy… bum! And he was so embarrassed… But he didn’t know what to do.

And then something happened. And his embarrassment changed to awe and reverence. For somewhere in his heart of hearts he heard a still, small voice… It said, “I was hungry, did you feed me? I was naked, did you clothe me? I was sick, did you care for me?” And in that moment, he knew that Jesus was in Philadelphia. And he was on Chestnut Street that morning. And Tony knew that he was being held in his arms as he stood there hugging this stranger.

Oh… there were angels hovering round that day, saying, “Tony! Have I got news for you! This man is your brother. He’s someone God loves, too. Someone God made in his image… just like you.”  It just doesn’t seem possible… But they each felt God touching their hearts through the other. And Tony said it changed him completely.  It changed the way he sees other people. He says it’s still hard sometimes. Sometimes it seems nearly impossible. But God sent him message that day. One he really needed to hear. And I have a feeling the homeless man received a message, too. That God is with him. That he is not alone. And that Jesus still comes to us. He can still bring us peace – even to someone like him. Someone the world would just rather ignore. And Jesus can still bring goodwill. Even among complete strangers.

It doesn’t seem possible. Especially in this world that is so full of hopelessness and despair. But that’s the message angels bring….

And isn’t that what the angel said to that young, young woman named Mary. “Greetings! You who are so highly favored.” To Mary he came. She was just an ordinary girl in an ordinary little town. A town so small that it wasn’t even on the map in those days. Oh, she was just about as likely to be chosen by God as that homeless guy on Chestnut Street. But there he was. This angel-messenger sent from God. “You will conceive. You will give birth. You’re going to have a baby. A king… A king whose kingdom will never end!”

She said, “How? That’s just not possible. I’m not married. I’ve never even been with a man.”

And the angel Gabriel said, “Your son will be called the Son of the Highest. Because the Spirit of God will enfold you. His power will overshadow you. And he will be God’s own Son. For you see, Mary. Nothing is impossible with God.” 

Oh, there are angels bending near the earth. There are angels hovering round today. And their message is the same. “Nothing is impossible with God. Nothing is impossible with the One who came to us in Jesus. The One who emptied himself and became one of us. The Word made flesh. The One who carried our sins… who paid our debt. Who redeemed us from slavery to sin and death and hell. Nothing is impossible with this God of ours…

And the same God who chose the most unlikely, ordinary, everyday sort of person – a young virgin, mind you, from a backwater little place called Bethlehem – to carry his own Son into this harsh and troubled world – the same God chooses you. No matter how unlikely or even impossible you think that could be. He chooses you to do the same. To be like Mary. To carry his Son into our world, that he might bring peace to troubled hearts. And goodwill to people who have nothing in common. And grace and mercy and lovingkindness to those whose hearts are bruised and whose spirits broken. God chooses you, like Mary, to deliver Jesus. To bear Christ into this world.

Sounds impossible, doesn’t it? How can this be? Do you ever think that? Or feel it? Or say it? I know I do.

A teacher asked her class one morning what each of them wanted to be when they grew up. And their answers came from all over the room: A football player. A doctor. An astronaut. The president, one of the children said. A fire fighter. A teacher. A race car driver… Everyone had an answer. Everyone that is, but one little boy named Tommy.

The teacher noticed he was sitting there quiet and still. And so she said, “Tommy, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

And Tommy said… Do you know what he said? Tommy said, “Possible.”

“Possible?” said the teacher.

“Yes,” said Tommy. “My mom is always telling me I’m impossible… So when I get bigger, I want to be possible.”

He wasn’t trying to be funny. He was a serious as he could be. Because that was the message he received. The only one that got through. And he believed what he heard. He believed that that’s who he was. And it hurt. It hurt so much…

It isn’t just Tommy. There is a world of hurt these days. A world of loneliness and despair…  People longing… People just waiting for the somebody to come. With a message – some word of hope. A message of deliverance. Some news.. that they aren’t alone. That Somebody is with them. That God is here. That God is with them. Not against them. But really with them and for them… Pulling for them. (For them.)

Oh… The world in solemn stillness lay to hear the angels sing. To hear some good news. A message of hope.

And God chooses you to be something like an angel. God sends you with the glad tidings. He sends you with his Word. His Son. The Word made flesh.

There is a woman in this community in need of something like that. She needs to know that she’s not alone. That somebody is pulling for her and her family. Because both of her parents, who are older now, are suffering some kind of dementia. I don’t know what is causing it for them. But you know what happens. It’s more than just forgetting names and telephone numbers. Or even birthdays and anniversaries, now. Sometimes you wonder if they know where they are or who they’re with. Or maybe they think you are someone else. Some other person they knew or even a stranger. And there are times when they can’t even remember how to butter a piece of toast, or how to make it…. You know what happens. How terrible it is to see this happen to someone you know and love. Someone who’s always been there for you. It can be frustrating. Really frustrating. And exhausting. It’s just so hard take…

So both of her parents have this now. And one day they fell. Both at once, her mom and her dad. And the mother had broken a hip and had to be in the hospital. And then her father went to the doctor for a checkup.   And when he did they discovered that he has cancer, now. And then the mother – the woman’s mother — had to go back to hospital. For three weeks. And this woman, their daughter, has been trying her best to care for them. Running back and forth, this way and that. And she is so tired. In her body, in her heart, in her, spirit… She is just exhausted.

And then, one Tuesday night she heard a knock at the door. “Oh, what could it be now? Who is there?”

Let me tell you who was there. It was someone you know. It was Ann and Jenny and Malissa.

They were walking in the community, ringing doorbells just to say a quick hello at each doorstep. Something like, “Hi! We’re from the church and we just wanted to say hello and give you a bag of homemade cookies. And we’d love to have you come and visit the church, sometime. Join us in worship. And if we can ever help you we’re here.” That’s what they were doing.

So there they were. And they said that to her. But something happened. There were angels on the street that night – messengers of hope – and bearers of Christ. Because this is what happened. The woman who is so exhausted, leaned against the door. And she said, “Oh, God sent you. It was God who sent you here tonight.” And she told them her story. About her parents and what had happened. And she said, “I am so thankful that you stopped by. I can’t tell you…” And they told her they would visit her parents.

And they did. And the woman was there with her parents. And she said it again. She said, “You know, when you came last week it was God who sent you. Because I had not eaten. All I had was a cold Big Mac and fries from McDonald’s. It had been sitting in my car. And I was just getting ready to microwave it. And you came with your cookies….” And it wasn’t just the cookies. It was the news, the message, the hope and the peace they delivered. It was the Christ they carried to her. “I know,” she said, “that God sent you. Because I was so exhausted. So tired. So weary. And when you came it made all the difference in the world.”

I tell you…there are angels hovering round. Bending near the earth. Bringing good news, glad tidings for all people: You are not alone. Christ our Lord still comes… He comes to you. And sends you now into this world he so loves. A world watching and waiting… longing to hear the truth, the Good News of God’s love in Jesus our Lord.

So… go. Go with God. Go to whomever he sends you.  For, The world in solemn stillness lay, to hear his angels sing.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Soli Deo Gloria

Benen

Legend has it that a young orphan boy was living among the shepherds who tended their flocks in the hills of Judea. The hill country was lovely and green, the perfect place for little lambs and young boys. But it was a dangerous place, too. Wolves and snakes and other wild beasts were never far away. The shepherds were always watching, always ready to protect the sheep of their fold. And in their presence the young boy felt safe.

But one night their hearts pounded with fear, and so did the boy’s, when suddenly an angel appeared with a message from their Creator, the Almighty himself! “Fear not,” said the angel. “For behold, I bring you glad tidings of great joy! A savior, the Messiah, is born tonight in the old city of David. You will find him there lying in a manger.”

A baby? In a manger? The anointed Messiah? They couldn’t believe it. And yet the great prophets, Isaiah and Jeremiah, had said this day would come. So the shepherds left their sheep in the hills and went to find the Lamb of God.

On the way to Bethlehem, the young orphan boy wove a crown of holly branches for the newborn king. But when he laid it before the infant Jesus, the crown looked so unworthy that the little shepherd became ashamed of his gift and began to cry. But then something strange and wonderful happened. The baby reached out and touched the crown. And with the Christ child’s tender touch, the leaves began to sparkle shiny and green.  And the orphan’s tears were changed into scarlet berries.

It’s a lovely legend, a beautiful story of love incarnate. And the glad tidings of great joy God speaks to his people here and now is the same. For Christ our Lord still reaches out to touch the wounded hearts of his little ones and all who long for his tender, healing, life-giving presence. He still brings healing to our woundedness, light to our darkness, and hope to our despair. The living, loving Messiah of God still reaches out to you and to me. But not to us only. There are others all around us who long for that same holy touch in their hearts and lives. Some feel rejected. Some have suffered loss. Some are hurting or hungry or homeless. Others long for meaning and purpose. Still others simply yearn to love and be loved….

So let us be God’s touch of love-made-flesh for them this Christmas. Reach out to Christ’s little ones all around you. Give your gifts, your love, your time, your heart. And remember that in doing all of these things, you join the sages and shepherds of old who offered their hearts to God’s own beloved Son, the Word made flesh who came to dwell among us.

Through the coming of a Child, God infuses the world with a holy presence. Receive this gift of Christmas, and live by grace to love in Christ’s name.

I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me…”
— John 10:14 (NRSV)

On a wall near her kitchen table were the words my grandmother prayed each morning as she ended her time of quiet communion with God: “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want ….” That was the image of Christ she carried in her heart and life — the image of the strong and tender Shepherd who will not lose even one of his sheep. For my grandmother, too, was a goodly shepherd, a curate to the world around her, caring for the lost and broken members of God’s own flock.

As a young boy, I spent a good bit of time with my grandmother, often staying the night with her in the little white frame house she called home. During the day I would work with her in the garden, gathering just enough corn for our supper and a basket of tomatoes for canning. In the evenings I would sit by her side as she read from The Upper Room and the bible she so gently cradled in her hands, as though it were a precious thing, treasured and holy. And from those ancient words that spoke of truth and grace, she would weave stories. And from the stories my grandmother told, God would weave healing and hope.

It happened on a dark and dreary day when I was seven, maybe eight years old. I was sitting alone at her kitchen table imagining that the brown china rabbit I had taken from the shelf was a living thing, a real live rabbit hopping through the forest. The rabbit had been a gift to her from a friend — someone very dear to her heart. On days that were dark and dreary, my grandmother would take the little brown rabbit from the shelf in her kitchen, place it in my hands, and begin to piece together a story. It might be the tale of The Hare and the Tortoise, The Velveteen Rabbit, or a story of her own making about a little brown rabbit that lived in the woods. And always, at the end of the tale, there would be a treat — a small glass of milk, a lemon cookie, and the warm and wonderful feeling of being welcome and wanted in my grandmother’s house.

But on that dark day, when I sat alone with the fragile brown rabbit, I imagined it hopping along — which it did, of course, with the help of my hand. But suddenly it “hopped” too close to the edge of the table and fell. When it landed on the old braided rug beneath the table, it was broken in two. And at that very moment, something inside me was broken, too. Everything was broken. After all, the rabbit had been a gift, something precious and dear to my grandmother’s heart, something that could never be replaced. So I ran. I ran and hid behind the old shed at the far end of the garden, where I was sure I would never be found. I sat there crushed and broken inside, mourning the loss of my grandmother’s love and the trust I had broken along with the rabbit. “No one will ever find me here,” I thought. And after what had just happened, I thought I didn’t deserve to be found.

But as the shepherd seeks the lamb that has strayed, my grandmother sought me. I could hear her footsteps coming closer and closer. As she came around the shed, I braced myself and looked down at the dirt, ready to bear the bitter scolding that surely was coming. I was in tears and trembling silently, because I knew that I was about to hear my own grandmother tell me how terribly disappointed she was in me — how ashamed she was to have such a grandson. She would tell me, surely, that I wasn’t welcome in her house anymore, that she didn’t want me to be her grandson, and never again would I sit at her table or hear her stories or know her love.

Ah, but grandma really was like a shepherd. She was like a goodly shepherd who seeks the one who has gone astray. Instead of scolding, she gathered me up in her arms and gently carried me back to her house and into her kitchen. And there on her kitchen table sat the little brown rabbit, no longer broken but all in one piece, as if it was new. She pointed to the rabbit, put her arms around me, and said, “If I had to, I could probably get along without that rabbit … But I don’t think I could ever do without you.”

That day she gave two lemon cookies and a tall glass of milk. And she told me a story about a little brown rabbit that was broken in two and put back together with a whole lot of love … and a wee bit of glue.

And the truth that Christ has woven in my heart from that experience is at the very heart of all the “I am” sayings of Jesus. It is what our hearts most long to hear: “I am with you… I am with you.”

He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep. — Isaiah 40:11 (NRSV)