Mary knew

Luke 1:26-56

            This is the most wonderful time of year, isn’t it? Lights and presents and cookies and 20-below zero—hey, two of three ain’t bad!—and music! Christmas music! And Christmas music is a wonderful combination of all the best and the worst of all music. It’s the calm of “Silent Night” and the sweet ding-dong of “Carol of the Bells;” it’s the beautiful melodic canvasses painted by “Coventry Carol” and the joyful exuberance of “Jingle Bells.” It’s so much good stuff, and then it’s terrible songs like “Santa Baby” and “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”—just go ahead and write off any song with “baby” in the title—and it’s other smarmy music that I’m not going to list because odds are some of you love it and that’s your own opinion, and, hey, we all like some terrible things.

            But there is one song that has to be mentioned on this Sunday where we read Mary’s Magnificat, because the Magnificat itself is so stupendous and timeless and bold. Whether it’s Marty Haugen’s version we’re about to sing, “My Soul Proclaims Your Greatness” or the “Canticle of the Turning” or many-a-Vespers service, Mary’s words have been put to music in many magnificent ways I suppose largely because the lyrics are so good. But there is a bad apple—a little song that some of you love because it’s beautiful and Pentatonix does a great version of it and it’s got a lovely melody and soaring bridge. It sounds lovely; it’s just that the words don’t add up. I’m talking, of course, about “Mary, Did You Know?”

            Now before you call me the Christmas Grinch that I undoubtedly am I just have to point out one little detail that jumps off the page from the first chapter of Luke every time I hear this song. “Mary knew!” If anyone in the Gospels knew who Jesus was it was Mary. She might be the only one but gosh darn she knew! She got it. Her song is a testimony to a revolution that she sees coming even when others are burying their heads in the sand.

Not a little more. All.

Matthew 2:1-12

One of the big emotions of this holiday season, and one of the ones we associate most with the season of Christmas, is joy. The wise men had it right there in chapter 2 of Matthew: "When they saw the star had stopped they were overwhelmed with joy." Not just kind of happy but overwhelmed with joy.

Joy isn't necessarily the emotion we associate with wise people, or with kings, or with people who have a lot of education. We tend to think that they're the pensive ones who are just kind of always level. So to have wise people be joyous sticks out. Joy is something we tend to associate much more freely with children. Now, if we think about what it is that wise men we might say that they study, and in those days what they were studying was, among other things, the stars. That happens to be why they noticed this new thing in the first place. It's guys who are looking at the stars who found Jesus, because you can't notice a new star in the sky unless you're looking in the first place. If a new star showed up in the sky tonight I wouldn't have a clue because I wouldn't be looking, and even if I did happen to look up I wouldn't notice that there was anything different about it because I don't know the sky that well in the first place. It's just not something I know intimately. So it was the wise men who studied, who had that background to observe this, who experience this overwhelming joy. It's worth starting there.

Why this youth trip meant more to me

For all I write I'm usually not very personal. This is mostly by design. I mean, I never much cared for pastors who preached all about their own lives, and I'm not much into self-promotion on the blog. There is a danger in not talking about myself--at a certain point I lose my humanity and become a thinking-head, a writing-automaton. It's posts like this that will hopefully keep me from becoming that. This is going to be more personal than most, and for that I do not apologize in the slightest.

This year marked my third mission trip/service trip/cultural immersion/whatever you want to call what we do with our high school youth each summer (personally I prefer service trip, generally, though this year was more of a cultural immersion). And this year was different than every other year--as it tends to be. Some parts were rough; some parts were great. We persevered and had what I would consider a great trip.

But the reason this trip meant more to me than years' past had little to do with what we actually did. It had far more to do with the relationships built over the course of three years, and (maybe more importantly) it had everything to do with the roller coaster ride I've been on professionally since Natalie was born. Things have been fine at home, but my time and energy has been sapped, and we have had a string of rather serious events in the life of our parish since I returned to the job in April. A change of secretary was tough, especially given the circumstances, then a spate of deaths, including a suicide of a man with a young family and a murder involving family of our congregation were tougher. Finally, in the last month we've lost a couple members who lived good long lives, but, frankly, they always made me happy to visit and, selfishly, I was very sad to see them go.

Diet Doom and Gloom: The first commandment with a side of hope.

Scripture: Exodus 19:1-6, 20:1-3

            As the week was winding down, and I still hadn’t gotten to thinking about a sermon on the 1^st commandment, I had this realization: I really don’t need to preach because Martin Luther already explained the 1^st commandment in his small catechism. Maybe some of you even remember this: “You shall have no other Gods. What does this mean? We are to fear, love, and trust God above all things.” Boom, end of sermon. Sure, it’s short but what more is there to add? Better still, this was a moderately cheery message for what can often seem like the doom and gloom of the law that we feel while reading the commandments. But then I figured, “Well, maybe a one line isn’t quite enough." So I went big (literally) and turned to the Large Catechism--that bastion of all things Lutheran that even pastors rarely crack open.

            And I started reading… and reading… and reading… and about four thousand words later I thought, “You know, maybe an hour long sermon isn’t a great idea either.” So, we’re going to have a sermon today that lasts somewhere between five seconds and an hour, which is kind of the trouble with the first commandment. On the one hand, it’s so clear that it hardly needs an explanation; on the other hand, it impacts basically everything we believe because it is the basis for our relationship with God. Have no other Gods before me. That’s pretty central to our faith.

Busy: The four-letter word for the church of the 21st century

Scripture: Philippians 1:1-18

            It was only a little over a week ago that we were finishing up our week-long Hunger Ride bicycle pilgrimage across northwestern Minnesota, but in that short time since I have had a good deal of time to reflect. Actually, the great thing about riding a bike for a good chunk of the day is that there is a lot of time to reflect even in the middle of it, and, time and again, the thing I took away from this ride was how much I needed to open my eyes to the world around me—to look beyond the surface of my narrow life and see the people who I mostly try to avoid. Open your eyes, I thought again and again.

            The same principle of opening our eyes applies to many different facets of life—how we read the Bible, for one. I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do with Philippians 1 today, because, you know, it’s Paul rambling on in introductory fashion and I didn’t expect to find anything earth-shattering in the introduction to a book. This scripture didn’t jive with what I felt called to talk about, and, honestly, my eyes glazed over every time I read it. I was failing at keeping my eyes open even as that was the message I wanted to share with you.

            Finally, as the week wore on I turned to a commentary on this Phillipians passage and I realized how naïve I was being. Paul was in prison when he wrote Philippians—it’s right there in verses 12-14, let me read it again because I missed it at first: “I want you to know, beloved, that what has happened to me has actually helped to spread the gospel, so that it has become known throughout the whole imperial guard and to everyone else that my imprisonment is for Christ; and most of the brothers and sisters, having been made confident in the Lord by my imprisonment, dare to speak the word with greater boldness and without fear.” In the back of my mind I knew that Paul wrote some of his letters from prison cells all over Asia Minor, but again this was just background noise; it didn’t hit home until I read a bit about what those prisons looked like. Ancient prisons were essentially holes in the ground meant for short-term stays, which meant the guards did not bring food or water, and so, the prisoners were completely at the mercy of the local people to bring them something to eat and drink to keep them alive. Suddenly, my mind jumped to Jesus in Matthew 25, saying, “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me” (Mt 25:35-36). 
            And then I realized that I was set to preach on this passage from Philippians less than a week after an eye-opening experience about the pervasiveness of hunger and even still I did not see that this was written by a man thankful for meager rations in a time of need; a man completely dependent on the charity of neighbors, who were, by the way, helping out an unapologetic criminal. This goes beyond hunger; it condemns all of us who live in bubbles, unaware of the world around us. It condemned me when I self-righteously assumed I understood what Paul was saying without imagining where he sat writing these words.

Fun things make Lutherans anxious: Miracles, enjoyment, and the purpose that holds it all together

 Scripture: John 2:1-11

            The wedding at Cana is something that Lutherans don’t much care for, because it is something that sounds potentially fun, and we are nothing if not deeply suspicious about anything that might be fun.

            I figured that was a nice, stereotypical half-truth to get your attention, so I’ll get back to that in a minute, but first I’m going to take a detour to confirmation class last Wednesday. Our discussion topic with the 9^th graders was miracles.
            I asked, "What is a miracle?" But I didn’t anticipate at all what they were going to say. Their answers were very interesting. They said a miracle is something “meaningful”; something with a “purpose” behind it; something “good.” I was expecting a definition of miracles that had something to do with impossibility—that they would say that miracles are things that cannot be explained or things that violate the laws of nature. But, whether they knew it or not, they actually saw through the question to the part that really matters. It’s not the possibility or impossibility of miracles that makes them significant but the meaning behind them. This gives me a good deal of hope, because when Jesus does something miraculous in John’s Gospel it is not called a miracle. Every healing and raising of the dead, every feeding or walking on water are just called “signs”—semeion is the word in Greek. They are events that point to something greater.

            A miracle is a thing with a purpose behind it, something meaningful, and good. It’s unlikelihood (or impossibility) is really only something that magnifies the meaning of it. What matters is the purpose.

Rejoice, Pray, Give Thanks -- Lent, week one

1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

¹⁶Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.

Rejoice always, pray always, give thanks always—that’s what Jesus wants for you. Simple enough. Then again, this is one of those little Bible verses that, if we’re honest with ourselves, brings out our inner nine-year-olds. It’s just not fair!

            I mean, it’s great to rejoice and to give thanks when we get what we want, but rejoicing when things are just “meh” or giving thanks when the referees, who are always out to get us by the way, ruin another closely contested game for our favorite sports team. That’s just not right; it’s just not fair. Giving thanks requires justice. It’s hard to imagine rejoicing after a bad storm or a fire or a bad accident, giving thanks after a premature death or in the midst of poverty or a recession. It’s hard to imagine praying without ceasing when God seems completely absent.

Mary's Song and the False Pursuit of Happiness

Text: Luke 1:39-56

            In the year 1689, John Locke wrote his “Two Treatises of Government” which included a line that said that the government’s obligation was to protect “life, liberty and estate.” Other sources since have tweaked the phrase, such as the Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments to the U.S. Constitution which declare that governments cannot deprive any person of “life, liberty, or property” and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which reads, “Everyone has the right to life, liberty and security of person.” However, by far the most well-known adaptation of Locke’s words is Thomas Jefferson’s Declaration of Independence, which says, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”

The Spirit and the Messiness of Worship

Text: Joel 2:12-13, 28-29

            Last Wednesday the Nativity Scene at Grace blew over. It was so perfectly poetic I had to take a picture of it lying there flat on the ground. Jesus is not in the manger yet; we still have a few weeks of Advent. So I’m OK with subtle divine hints that maybe that nativity scene can wait. And besides, it was particularly appropriate that it was the wind that knocked it over, since the Hebrew word for “wind” (ruach) also means “spirit.” It was as if the Holy Spirit were saying, “No. Not yet. Slow down. Wait.”
             Lo and behold, now we have the prophet Joel this Sunday, again preaching on the Spirit. Joel is probably one of the least familiar books in the Bible, so I’ll forgive you if you aren’t Joel experts. Still, some of what we read today should be familiar. There’s that Lenten refrain: “Return to the Lord, your God, for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.” Lent and Advent share some commonalities. They are both about reflection, they both involve turning or returning to God, and they are both times awaiting God’s in-breaking into the world. We understand that this is the season where we are anticipating Jesus, but God's in-breaking into our daily lives requires also the Holy Spirit. We don’t really talk about it much—because honestly we don’t talk about the Spirit much ever—but in this time of the year when we’re completely fine with angels and heavenly choruses it's astounding that we still manage to ignore the Holy Spirit.

Joy, Happiness, and the Way the World Doesn't Work

Earlier this week I attended a splendid NW Minnesota Synod Retreat and Conference whose keynote was Dr. Jacqueline Bussie, Professor Religion at Concordia College in Moorhead. She talked on hope and joy in a world of despair and grief, offering really practical suggestions for how this can impact our lives. Let me be frank, this may have been the best conference I've ever attended for its sheer usefulness to everything that I do as a pastor. These are some of my reflections, mixed with Dr. Bussie's insights, on the impact that joy can have on our lives.

We think we are all looking for happiness--that what really matters is whatever makes you happy. We tell ourselves that; we tell our children that. We retreat into the corner when something or somebody seeks to take that happiness away. I believe this is why we are not willing to talk seriously about grief and loss, because those are subjects that just sound too depressing to consider. They are contrary to the motto: Whatever makes you happy.

When I look at my own life I am not a particularly sad person, and so I often feel that same tendency to avoid grief and loss. Things are going pretty well; I have nobody close to me sick or dying, no imminent loss that I know of, nothing that should be able to deter my immediate happiness. This is my fortune, but it's not simply the case that we turn on and off feelings of grief and sorrow or, for that matter, control when they may come. All of us--if we live long enough--will experience moments of absurd suffering; moments that show our happiness to be no match for despair.

This is because happiness is actually a pretty shallow emotion. For all the face time we give to being happy it is not that momentary feeling--or state of mind--that keeps us going in times of grief. Instead, it is something else, something deeper, that persists when the foundations of our world shake.

Joy.

Joy is not the same thing as happiness, though the world tells us it is. Happiness is moment-by-moment; it is subject to the whims of the world; and it is always in conflict with sadness and despair. You can't be both happy and despairing; they are two sides of the emotional coin. Joy is something else. Joy may show itself in spurts, like happiness, but it is not quashed by sorrow. In fact, joy requires an understanding of the power that tragedy and despair have over our lives, and it protests that power, saying "No, sorrow and despair do not win. There is something stronger, something more real than loss." Happiness is internal conquest, but joy is resurrection.

Here is where that distinction becomes practical. Think about the most powerful moment of hope in your life. Think about the times that have strengthened your faith more than any other. What led to that moment? I am willing to bet there is at least a undertone of sorrow in those moments of hope. In fact, I bet that many of those moments of profoundest hope come intermixed with our most acute feeling of helplessness.

I think about the trip our youth took to Cortez, Colorado this summer and the joy we found there. We experienced intense sadness on that trip at the suffering of people whose lives we could not fix, but I think I can speak for the group and say with assurance that everyone of us had a favorable experience. What we experienced was not happiness--not as the world would define it. None of us came away content that the world was a great place for those children and families, and yet we felt a sense of wholeness in being there. It was a clear sense of joy; a power that says "This is not the end." Hunger and divorce, jailed family members and broken relationships do not destroy the human spirit that cries out in spite of their condition. Joy is always in spite.

Our youth (and adults) in Cortez

I worry that we are not joyful enough. We turn on the news and feel down because the media suggests that bombs and politics are the real story. We turn on the XBox and find contentment in mindlessness. We turn to things that are simple and make us happy: sex, alcohol, drugs. We put more importance in contests and pride--in our sports and our us-versus-them mentality--than we do in our unity and diversity. All of this is a culture that just wants to make us happy. It is a hungry beast. You keep feeding it and it will never be enough.

But I believe there is a better world out there. It is a world that discovers joy in the little things; that does not sell its soul for happiness but understands that sorrow is a natural part of life. We can learn from this. We can be bigger than our losses. We can experience true joy in the midst of things we do not understand. Joy does not conquer sadness; it lives in it. So, when the trappings of happiness fade away may you discover that there is a deeper joy that gives you hope. May you find it in the midst of things that the world considers depressing and dour. May you discover that nothing can contain the joy that is in you.

And may you share the joy that is in you with someone who needs to hear it.