I said what I had to say, but inside I felt sick.

I felt a little sick on Sunday morning. Physically, I was fine. But I was like the gorilla at the zoo who throws her own feces at the glass, just to let those who are watching on the other side know exactly what she thinks of them. But the thing was, for me, these were people I truly care about. This was not even remotely what I thought of them. And yet, I threw it anyway. What kind of jerk does something like that?

This wasn’t the first time I’ve felt this way, but I don’t remember ever feeling it like I did this past week. It happened while I was preaching the sermon. In my defense, the text was Luke 6:20-26.
Then he (Jesus) looked up at his disciples and said:
“Blessed are you who are poor,
for yours is the kingdom of God.
“Blessed are you who are hungry now,
for you will be filled.
“Blessed are you who weep now,
for you will laugh.
“Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for that is what their ancestors did to the prophets.

If Luke had stopped with the blessings, like Matthew did, all would be well, but Luke had to go on with the part about the woes. And that was the problem.
“But woe to you who are rich,
for you have received your consolation.
“Woe to you who are full now,
for you will be hungry.
“Woe to you who are laughing now,
for you will mourn and weep.
“Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets.

(In my faith tradition, we have a schedule of readings that we go through every three years called the Revised Common Lectionary. I can deviate from it if I want to, but then I would always be preaching on my favorite passages and that’s not exactly an honest way to preach God’s word to folks. So, the lectionary forces me to preach on texts that challenge me. And that’s a good thing. Good for me, and good for those who are on the receiving end of my sermons.)

 
Now, it’s not that I have a problem with Luke’s version of the Beatitudes. I’ve preached on them before without an issue. But this time was different. Although I've always been a preacher who tends to challenge people, during the pandemic, I’ve been trying hard to be more comforting than confronting. In a time when people are feeling so beaten down every day, they don’t need to be beaten down by their pastor. So, over the past two years, I’ve been emphasizing Biblical themes like compassion, trust, and hope whenever I can. But Luke 6:20-26 wouldn’t let me go there.

 
Before the pandemic, I had occasionally been criticized because I didn’t preach in a way that left everyone feeling good, like Joel Osteen. I figured that the scriptures don't always leave everyone feeling good, so I didn’t allow their feedback to change the way I preached. And really, even my challenging sermons were always infused with grace, I thought. (Of course, grace may be the most challenging theological concept of all.)

Then last week, I received an email from a member I hadn’t seen during the entire pandemic and it rattled me. She told me she could no longer attend worship because it left her feeling bad about herself, even though she knows she’s a good person. I tried to reassure myself that I wasn’t responsible for how she feels, but a part of me wondered if maybe I was. Maybe my confrontational sermons had been too much. And then, on Sunday, here I was, doing it again.

We are entering a time when people who have been away from the church for the last few years are deciding whether they want to return. It is the “Great Reset.” We don’t know who will be among us when we come out on the other side. The majority of our Ascension members continue to worship online, and we don’t know exactly who they are. Some of our members are going to other churches now. We also have welcomed new people to Ascension. In some cases, we have swapped members with neighboring churches. And then there are those who no longer have an interest in any church at all.

Somehow, politics have crept into this Great Reset. While we figured out how to coexist during the Trump years, we haven’t fared as well during the pandemic. A few people left Ascension when we put “Black Lives Matter” signs in our front yard, which was enough to encourage others to join us. Some disagree with the cautious way we have asked people to worship with us during the pandemic, which is perceived as politically motivated. I’ve struggled with this much in the same way that I struggle to be faithful to Biblical preaching. What does it mean to be faithful to Jesus in this time? It’s not so much about a need to be right as a need to be faithful to the Jesus I’ve come to know and love, the Jesus revealed in the scriptures, the Jesus who taught us, “By this everyone will know that you’re my disciples, if you have love for one another.” Sometimes I get it wrong, but this is always what I’m trying to do.

On Sunday, when I stood in the pulpit and said what I had to say, inside I felt sick. I didn’t want to beat people up. Heck, I’m getting ready to retire, and I’d prefer that there be a congregation to leave for the next pastor. And yet, I was telling my overwhelmingly white, affluent congregation that God has a bias that favors the poor, the hungry, the oppressed. I shared with them that Luke’s gospel celebrates the Great Reversal as a sign of God’s Reign here on Earth. Where the hungry are filled with good things and the ones who are full are sent away empty. Where the rich are brought low, and the poor are lifted up. And here we go again with the politics. Except it isn’t politics. It’s Jesus. So, I said what I had to say. But inside I felt sick.

And why am I telling you this? Because I want you to know that I don’t take the things I say from the pulpit lightly. That when I was ordained, I promised to faithfully preach the word of God and that means doing my best to not preach the word of Nancy. That sometimes the scriptures compel me to say things I really don’t want to say. That as a human being, I don’t want other people to dislike me. I don’t want to come across like a jerk. I don’t want to be a gorilla flinging my feces at people. I want you to know that I'm human, and sometimes I feel sick when I say what I say in a sermon. But I’m a pastor, so I need to say it.

Last Times

As I learn of a judge on the Supreme Court, an NFL superstar, and a gold medal snowboarder who are all retiring, I feel a kinship with them. Like me, and all people who retire, I suspect they are experiencing the strangeness of last times.  After doing something we’ve done a bazillion times before, it becomes a part of we you are, so knowing we will be doing it for the last time creates a bit of an identity crisis. And if it happens to be something that we’ve loved doing, knowing it’s the last time comes with some grief. 

When I was ordained at 26, I couldn’t imagine that I would still be a pastor 43 years later. And now that the date of my retirement is nearing, I’m thinking about all the lasts. I’m down to my last 20 sermons, after preaching thousands of times through the years. Will I preach my last sermon at the end of June, or sometime after I retire? I don’t know. But I do know that there will be a last sermon for me.

A few years ago, I looked ahead to the months before my retirement and imagined myself savoring all the lasts. My last Christmas, my last time presiding at Holy Communion, my last time teaching a class, my last Council meeting… I planned to take it all in and do my best to slow down time so none of those lasts would slip by me too quickly. But that’s not the way it’s been going.

This year I had what should have been my last Christmas with my people, but instead of savoring it, I just wanted to get through it and move on. I feel like I had my last Christmas with them in 2019. That was a real Christmas celebration with full organ, brass quintet, timpani, handbells, and choir leading us we sang our hearts out. We lit candles for “Silent Night”, and I fought back the tears as I looked into the glowing faces of the people standing on the other side of the altar. After worship, we greeted one another with hearty Merry Christmases and hugs. By the time all the worship services had ended that night, I was exhausted, but in the best possible way, with a heart so full that when I finally went to bed after midnight, it took me hours to fall asleep. If I had known that was my last full Christmas with Ascension, I would have relished it more. For Christmas 2021, I had no sentimental feelings. If I had any feeling at all, it was anger. I was angry at the pandemic for robbing me of this one last Christmas with the people I have grown to love.

I am down to my last five months as a parish pastor. And this is not the way I expected things to go. I am not treasuring my lasts the way I had hoped. So many of them already happened two years ago, back when I didn’t know they were my lasts. Now as I look forward to what is officially my last Easter with Ascension, I can’t help thinking that, like Christmas, my last Easter with them was back in 2019. Yes, I know it will still be Easter, Christ will still be risen indeed, and I’ll be spending it with my people. But it won’t be what I had envisioned for my last Easter.

I can’t stop wondering when I might be doing something for the last time these days. Some things I can’t bear to think that I’m doing for the last time. Like baptizing a baby. I hope that hasn’t already happened for the last time. And other things, it would relieve me to know if I’m doing them for the last time. I have a funeral this month and I pray, please let this be my last funeral. There have been too many in my time at Ascension. I look at the dear saints of our faith community, and I don’t want to commit a single one of them to their final resting place. Please, Lord, let the next pastor do that, after I’m gone.

I know that I have no control over my lasts. Even when I think I do, it often doesn’t go the way I expected. And the truth is, I never know, when I am experiencing the things that bring me joy, if it might be for the last time—the last time to taste Crème Brûlée, the last time to listen to Copeland’s Appalachian Spring, the last time to do the chicken dance at a wedding reception. Each time could be the last time.

I wonder what my life would be like if I treated everything I did as if it were for the last time. Would it give me a heightened awareness that helps me live my life to the fullest? I know myself well enough to know that it wouldn’t work that way for me. If I knew it was the last time I was going to do any of the things I love in life, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy them.

For most of my lasts that I’ve already experienced, it’s just as well that I didn’t know they were going to be my last. Although I had no idea that it would never happen again, I’ve already sat in the top branches of a tree for the last time. I’ve already roller skated for the last time. I’ve played my flute with a full orchestra for the last time. I’ve already climbed Mount Pisgah for the last time. And then there’s sex. Many years ago, I had sex for the last time. (Before you try to tell me that I still don’t know it was the last time I would have sex, trust me. I know. It was the last time I will ever have sex.) Of course, the last time I had sex I didn’t know it would be the last time I had sex. And I’m quite certain that, had I known, it would have felt so monumental that it would have ruined the whole thing for me. 

I’ve been dwelling on last times too much these days. I want to live through the next five months oblivious to the last time I will do things and instead look forward to all the first times I have yet to experience. For the first time ever, I will be with my grandsons for their first day of school. I will go to Justin’s soccer game for the first time, and I’ll watch Nick run track. I will be with them on Christmas morning for the first time. One day soon, I will visit with them and go home, knowing that I will see them again the next day. And this will be the first of many such days I’ll be blessed to enjoy. I still have so many first times ahead of me.

Last times and first times. Over the next year, I expect my days to be filled with an abundance of both. And I trust that the last times, the first times, and the many times in between are all in God’s hands. As am I.

From Mountain to Beach

I’ve made a big change to the way I’m coping with the coronavirus pandemic in the past couple of weeks. And it’s all in my head. I used to think of this time like a climbing a mountain. We all had to work hard to make our way up the mountain, but we would arrive at the top eventually. Then we could coast our way down to the bottom and our lives would return to their pre-pandemic ways—hugging, singing, feasting. All the stuff that happened so long ago that I can hardly recall what it was like, but I do remember it was a better time, and I long to have it back.

Most of the people in my congregation seem to share this understanding of the pandemic. Several times a day I talk with someone who tells me they can’t wait to be back in church like it was in the good old days. When you could sit wherever you wanted. When you could see smiles on unobstructed faces. When the choir processed down the center aisle and led us from the front. When we sang all the verses to all the hymns like good Lutherans. When we passed the peace with lots of hugs and kisses. When we joined hands for the Lord’s Prayer. When we visited with friends over a cup of coffee. When children added background noise to our gatherings and filled us with joy. 

So many of the people I serve at Ascension are fervently longing for those days. In the meanwhile, they wait. Some are staying home and worshiping with us online. Others are enduring the tight restrictions we have imposed on our in-person worship. But they’re toughing it out, doing what they can to climb that mountain until we can get past it. Of course, we don’t know how long the ascent will take. But we’re hopeful it won’t be much longer. Again and again, we’re hopeful it won’t be much longer. 

Initially, I was hopeful when I learned about the omicron variant. This is great, I thought. Everyone will get the virus, but not many people will die, and then we’ll be closer to herd immunity, and this will be the beginning of the end. In my mind I had it all worked out. But I came to learn that my theory was deeply flawed and that’s not the way this damn virus works. 

In January, I reached the point where I was hope-exhausted. And I couldn’t do it anymore. The mountain metaphor had run its course for me. So now, I’m thinking of this experience in a new way. I’m done climbing that never-ending mountain. Now I’m looking at it like a day at the beach.  

I think about the way the tide guides our activities at the beach. It comes in, it goes out. When the tide comes in, you pick up your beach chair and your umbrella and your sand buckets, and you retreat. But then, when the tide goes out, it’s time to play on the beach. 

The tricky part is figuring out when the tide is coming in and when it’s going out. The coronavirus isn’t as predictable as the ocean, but we generally have some warning. We knew before omicron that it was coming. We could prepare for it. And now, we can see that it’s receding. Does that mean that the tide is going out? It appears that it is. 

So, I’m looking at Lent, and I’m thinking, let’s plan it like we will be able to play on the beach. Let’s do some things we haven’t been able to do in a while, even if only for a short time. Nothing unsafe, of course, but let’s start some learning opportunities, find ways to serve the community, worship more, sing more. Time will tell if I’m wrong about this, but it’s less than a month away, so I’m going with it. If the tide comes in unexpectedly, we can pivot just as we have for the past two years. 

As the virus ebbs and flows, we are at its mercy, in so many ways. Planning anything more than a month away continues to be frustrating for a planner like me. (I can’t bring myself to think about Easter yet.) But it’s helping me to change metaphors for coping with this time. It’s not so much about enduring the slog up the mountain but receiving the changing waves as they come to us, pulling back when it’s prudent to do so, and building sandcastles when it’s safe to do so. Of course, I know that sandcastles don’t last, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy them in the moment. 

I don’t want to waste any more of my precious time waiting for life on the other side of the mountain. Instead, I plan to savor any moments I have to play for a bit on the beach.

Where I'm finding hope

Back when the pandemic began, in March of 2020, we had no idea how long it would continue. I saw it as a challenge and was confident I could handle it. I mustered up all my creativity, I learned to adapt, and I dug down deep to draw upon my faith and inner strength to push through it. I came to realize that I could only do this for so long, and I had to concede that I wasn’t able to continue carrying the crushing weight of the pandemic for as long as it persisted.

In my hopeful moments, I thought—After we get through this rough patch, we’ll turn the corner. Next year at this time, our lives will be back to normal. Once we get the vaccine, things will change. By Easter, we’ll all be back in church again. There was always a thread of hope that I clung to. Each time one of those threads disintegrated, I searched desperately for a new one.

Lately, I’ve stopped looking for the next thread. I’m tired of being disappointed. I’m beyond tired, actually. All my resources have been spent. I just want to hibernate like a bear and wait for the spring to come. Instead, I’m clawing my way through each day, hoping to reach the other side of this endless winter. And I don’t know if I have it within me to do it.  

I can’t stop wondering about the impact the pandemic is having on our psyches and its long-term effects. I grieve over the fact that the lives of our children and youth are being shaped by this. So much of what I cherished about my pre-adult years is being taken from them: dances, sleep-overs, class trips, band, plays, cramming into a booth at Frisch's with all my friends after a basketball game. I know the pandemic will shape the rest of their lives. I think what grieves me the most is that, for our kids, this has become the way the world is. Maybe that makes it easier for them. But for me, I can’t get past the fact that this isn’t the way the world is supposed to be.

I have been thinking a lot about people who lived through similar life-altering times in history. My mother was a child of The Depression. It changed everything about her. How could it not? It went on for 10 years. Ten years! She also lived through the WW2 years. That time the US was living on rations in a state of stark despair and uncertainty went on for four years. How did they do it? Were they also living from day to day, clinging to any thread of hope they could find? Did they also reach a point of exhaustion where they didn’t think they had it in them to continue clawing through one more day of endless winter?

All I know is that they did it. And their survival formed them into “The Greatest Generation.” I can’t tell you how inspired I am by this. Although I never thought my generation would be challenged by anything as dramatic as The Depression or WW2, I don’t know why I always assumed we would be insulated from such a time. The story of civilization is one struggle after another. In some parts of the world, it had been one endless struggle long before the COVID-19 pandemic began. And when I look ahead, I fear that our greatest struggle is yet to come as the wide-reaching effects of climate change continue to escalate.

Knowing that people before us have survived enormous life-altering struggles inspires me. Instead of clinging to threads of hope that disintegrate, one after another, I’d rather hold onto the lives of those who have gone before me. That’s a source of strength and faith that will never fail me.  

In church-speak, we call this the communion of saints. They remind me that the world didn’t begin the day I was born, and it will not end the day I die. I come from a long line of people who have made their way through life, each with their own struggles to overcome along the way. Many have come before me, and many will come after me. I’m just a part of the great procession of the communion of saints.

I’m keenly aware of their presence right now. Sometimes I could swear I hear them talking to me. It’s a quiet murmur like a breeze passing by my ear. When I listen carefully, I hear them saying, “It’s your turn, Nancy. We did this; you can do it, too.”

 

  

Plans Shot to Pieces

 Preached at Ascension Lutheran Church in Towson, Maryland, January 16, 2022,

There are people who have no problem going with the flow. Whenever life throws them for a loop, they take it in stride and calmly make their way through the chaos. I suspect those are the ones who are navigating these pandemic years with ease.

I wouldn’t know anything about that because I’m not one of them. I am a planner to the Nth degree, always over preparing for what’s next. I research everything: the weather, the market, health stats, reviews of products before I make a purchase. I like to know what to expect, and I absolutely hate surprises.

Living through the pandemic leaves me feeling like someone is using my inner core as a punching bag. I continue to plan, plan, plan. I just can’t stop. It’s who I am.

But I’m constantly being forced to revise my plans, going to plan B, and then plan C, and D, and sometimes all the way to Z. Are there any other planners out there? Are you as exhausted as I am these days?

Jesus is a planner. He has planned how he will one day present himself to the world when he begins his ministry. He has no intention of stumbling awkwardly into public life.

For the past 30 years, he’s lived a low-profile existence. And here he is, doing what ordinary people do. He goes to a wedding, where he’s just another guest.

Well, as poor planning would have it, the celebration goes on and on and the wedding hosts run out of wine. This is sure to cause them no end of embarrassment.

When his mother Mary learns of it, she knows that Jesus can fix it. So, she goes to him and explains the situation. And how does her son respond? With the attitude of “poor planning on your part does not constitute a crisis on my part”, he says, “What do I care? It’s not my problem.”

And then, after telling his mother to get off his back, like many mothers are prone to do—she completely ignores him. The next thing we know, she’s telling the servants to do whatever Jesus says to do.

Now, Jesus could raise a hissy fit. He could chide his mother for ignoring his wishes. He could insist that this has nothing to do with him and storm off. But he doesn’t. He acquiesces, perhaps not so much to help the host save face but to help his mother save face. Although he may be a man with a plan, he recognizes when it’s time to go with the flow.

There are some huge jars standing there and Jesus instructs the servants to fill them all the way up to the tippy-top with water. And then, after they do that, he tells them to dip a cup into a jar and take it to the guy who’s in charge of the reception.

Well, the guy in charge is a little miffed because the host hasn’t done this the way he’s supposed to. You see, first you’re supposed to serve the best wine and then, after everyone is a little drunk and their taste buds become numb, then you bring out the cheap stuff because nobody will know the difference. But this host doesn’t follow the plan; he does just the opposite. Instead of serving the best stuff first, the best stuff comes at the very end of the party.

John tells us in his gospel that this is the first of Jesus’ signs. This is where it all begins. John doesn’t call it a miracle. He never uses that word. Instead, he calls it a sign. It’s the first of seven signs that we read about in John’s gospel. Each reveals something to us about who God is.

From this sign, what do we learn about God? That God is about abundance. God gives us more than we can ever expect, more than we can ever imagine, certainly more than we can ever deserve. And God is full of surprises.

There’s an important detail in this story that we miss if we remain solely focused on Jesus, and that’s the presence of his mother. In John’s gospel, he never calls her by name. She is only referred to as the mother of Jesus. And she only appears twice. She is here at the wedding at Cana, and then we don’t see her again until much later, when she reappears at the foot of the cross. She brackets her son’s life. She is present at the beginning of his ministry and then she reappears at the end.

Don’t you wonder what she might know about Jesus that would lead her to believe he can do something to help a host save face when the wine gives out at a wedding? Has she seen him do things like this before? When Jesus insists that it isn’t his time yet, has she heard this too many times before? Is she like most parents are when they have a 30 year old son still living at home? Is she just ready for him to get on with it?

If Jesus has big plans for how he will begin his public life, his mother shoots those plans to pieces. No matter that he objects. No matter that he insists the timing is all wrong. His mother outs him. So, what can he do? It’s really quite surprising how easily he gives in. He surrenders his preplanned strategy and embraces a new possibility. He prefers plan A, but when unexpected circumstances push him there, he moves on to plan B.

It’s been my experience that most often, God reveals Godself to us when our carefully laid plans are shot to pieces. When the things we thought were under our control start to unravel and in the midst of it all, God is revealed. Have you noticed that, too?

The destruction of our carefully constructed plans can leave us in despair, or they can bring us to transformative God moments.

As exhausted as those of us who are planners may be right now, and as frustrating as it is to have our carefully laid plans shot to pieces again and again, God is speaking to us in the uncertainty of our lives. This is the time to confess that we are not in control and open ourselves to what God is doing in our lives. If we don’t do that now, when will we?

 

 

The Third Year of the Monster

These days, I’ve been thinking a lot about the way monster movies end. There’s always that penultimate scene where the monster that has wreaked havoc on the world is finally destroyed and all is well. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. The monster is no more, and they can get back to the way their lives were before it was unleashed upon them. But then, all of a sudden, the monster springs to life again for one last moment of terror before it’s finally destroyed, once and for all.

The pandemic we’ve been living through since 2020 feels a lot like that to me. We keep thinking, once we get past this, it will all be over, and we can get our lives back. It feels like it’s finally on its way out. And then, it keeps returning for more.

We have now entered our third year dominated by the pandemic. It was a threat to us in 2020, all through 2021, and now, here we are… It’s 2022, and Covid is still very much with us. I think we’re all coming to realize that we won’t be able to finally kill it like a monster in the movies. It will be with us for a long time to come, maybe forever, and we need to adapt our lives to it.

That reality has made it difficult for me to say, “Happy New Year” this year. Instead, I want to say something else. Like “Healthy New Year.” Or “Resilient New Year.” But even those miss the meaning of the moment. Maybe we should just acknowledge it’s a New Year and wait to see what it brings us. So, New Year, everyone! 

As we begin this new year, we gather together and hear the prologue to John’s gospel. A Christmas story nothing like the one we heard on Christmas Eve. Jesus isn’t born in Bethlehem. He always was, from the very beginning. The Word, creating all that is. Saying “Let there be light. Let there be land and sea. Let there be plants and animals. Let there be human beings.” And then, the Word does something radical. The Word becomes a part of their own creation. Entrusting their very life to their creatures.

God chose to reveal Godself in humility. He began  as a vulnerable baby, dependent upon the love of his human family. And his life on this earth ended when he submitted himself to an unjust execution at the hands of those who hated him. That’s what happened when God took on human form. Certainly, not what anyone would expect. But then, that was the point. The word made flesh is not what anyone would expect.

And yet, this first chapter of John doesn’t only tell us about what it’s like for God to become truly human. It also tells us what it’s like for us to become truly human. What has come into being was life, and the life was the light of all people….He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his people didn’t accept him. And then, here come the verses that stand out like a giant oak tree in the middle of a garden. But to all who received him, who believed on his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.

Right smack dab in the middle of all this beautiful prose about the word becoming flesh, we read that this wasn’t just an event where God was somehow transformed. It transformed us, as well.

Jesus is our brother. His father is our father, too. We are God’s children. Jesus was born into a culture where connecting with God was all about religion: doing the right stuff, following rituals, obeying laws. Jesus changes all that by showing us that our connection with God isn’t through religion. It’s through relationship. We are children of God.

When the word became flesh and lived among us, it changed who we are. God became like us in Jesus so that we can become like him. We too can turn to God as our loving parent. With our brother Jesus, we too are God’s beloved children. Through Jesus, we don’t just see what it looks like for God to become human. We also see what happens when a human being, someone like us, lives in a complete relationship with God.

That’s the unique challenge for us in John’s Christmas story. We’ve heard all about the angels and the shepherds and the baby born in Bethlehem from Luke’s gospel. But John doesn’t include any of those details in his version of the story. He cuts to the chase. To him, the details aren’t important. What’s important is the significance of it all. What does it mean? What difference does it make?

The essence of John’s message is this. That it doesn’t matter if we’re good religious people. It doesn’t matter if we have our theology right. And it doesn’t matter if we’re good little Christians and follow all the rules. What matters is the relationship we have with God. That Jesus is our brother, and just as surely as Jesus was in a relationship with his Father, God wants that for us, too.  

As we begin a new year together, it’s a hard one. I’m tired of thinking about Covid-19. I’m tired of talking about it. I’m tired of worrying about it. I just want it to go away like a monster finally goes away at the end of a movie. There are days when I’m confident that all will be well and other days when I’m not so sure.

I heard Dr. Jane Goodall on NPR in December, and she was speaking about hope. She used the image of a long, dark tunnel to describe it. That got my attention because that’s the way I feel right now. It’s like we’re all trapped in this long, dark tunnel together. And we can see, way off at the end of the tunnel, there’s a light shining. That light is hope. And here’s what Dr. Goodall said that really grabbed me. She said, "We don't sit at our end of the tunnel and hope light will come to us . . . We've got to climb over all the obstacles between us and that light to get there." We don't sit at our end of the tunnel and hope light will come to us . . . We've got to climb over all the obstacles between us and that light to get there.

Although we may be feeling like we’re trapped in a long, dark tunnel right now, we can trust that there is a light at the end of that tunnel. That’s our hope. But we’re not there yet. We’ve got some serious climbing to do. And living in a closer relationship with God will get us there. It will provide us with the guidance we need, the wisdom we need, the patience we need, the resolve we need as we make our way toward hope.

As we gather today, the first Sunday of 2022, the third year of coexisting with the monster that just won’t die, we hear the beginning of John’s gospel once again. It’s calling us to move toward a closer relationship with God. And hope.

And, that’s it. That’s the greeting I’ve been searching for. A Hopeful New Year to you all!

 

 

Just As We All Were Born

Christmas Eve 2021 

I don’t know what it is about watching a baby being born, but every time I see it happen, I cry. Now, you may be wondering how often I witness babies being born because you know I don’t work in obstetrics. And you might be surprised to know that this is something I actually see on a regular basis… Because I’m a devoted fan of the television series on PBS, “Call the Midwife” where babies are born several times in each episode. I mean, that’s the whole point of the show. And I confess to you that whenever I watch “Call the Midwife”, it’s with a box of tissues by my side because every time a baby is born, my tears flow. No matter how many times I see it happen, I still cry. 

For a long time, I tried to figure out why I love watching a TV show that makes me cry like this. And then, in one of the episodes, it became clear to me. Sister Monica Joan was a midwife in her younger years, but she had long since retired. In her old age, she had a crisis of faith, and she could no longer bring herself to believe God existed. This went on for quite a while. But then one day she found herself in the unexpected position of once again helping a woman with her childbirth. And witnessing the birth of the baby was all it took for her. It was all the evidence she needed to experience the presence of God. 

The birthing process is gritty. It’s painful. If you didn’t know what was taking place, and you just watched it unfolding, you would see a cataclysmic event where it appears all is lost. It’s horrifying. And then, suddenly—a baby! There’s a strong connection between birthing and resurrection. In both, there is more than enough evidence to experience the presence of God. 

I think we lose a lot of that at the birth of Jesus because of the way we’ve told the story. We like to think of Mary as a girl who radiated sweetness and light from the day the angel visited her and told her what was about to happen. We think she never questioned or complained. She was never afraid. But really, do you think that’s the way it happened? 

We like to believe Joseph was easily convinced by an angel that everything would be okay if he took Mary as his wife, despite the fact that she was pregnant and he wasn’t the father. That he wasn’t troubled by how he would look to others, that he wasn’t wondering if he might not be playing the fool and thinking it would be easier to walk away. Surely, there was more to Joseph’s story than what we read in the Bible. 

And the way Jesus was born. We tend to picture it in the most sanitized way possible. Mary didn’t have labor pains. When it was time for Jesus to be born, he gently tapped on her womb a few times, and she knew he would soon be here. 

Mary was never afraid while she went through something she had never experienced before. She never cried out in pain. There was no pushing from a very unladylike position. No blood. No afterbirth. The baby just magically appeared. He came out sparkling clean, with a smile on his face and a halo on his head. But could that possibly have been the case?

We sing “the cattle are lowing, the baby awakes, but little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes” as if he never cried like a normal child. He never kept his parents awake nights so that they never knew the torture of sleep deprivation during the first few weeks of his life, the way other parents do. He took to his mother’s breast immediately, never caused her a moment of anxiety or discomfort and always gave her lots of time to rest between feedings.

And, of course, he never pooped like a normal baby. So, his parents never had to deal with cleaning up his mess, back in the day before there were disposable diapers. He certainly never had diarrhea or a diaper rash. And he never threw up. He never felt any pain when those first teeth were slicing their way through his tender, little gums.

 Have you had enough? Have I completely burst the bubble you’ve been carrying around about the perfect birth of Jesus that was unlike the birth of any other human being? I hope so! Because the whole point of Christ’s nativity story is that God was born into this world the same way we all have been born. We tend to insert so much heavenliness into the story that we rob it of all its earthiness. And earthiness is exactly the point of the story.

The theological term for this is the incarnation. And that’s what we celebrate on this night.

That God didn’t just come to visit us for a while and then return to where God came from. God chose to become one of us. To become a creature as a part of God’s own creation. And it began with Jesus’ birth. Just like the birth of any other baby: crying from the sting of the air in his lungs as he took in his first breaths, clinging to his mother for warmth in a cold world, dependent upon two human beings for his very survival from one minute to the next.

Was he not a sweet baby? I’m sure he was, just as all babies are sweet. For he was born like we all were born. With all the pain, and fear, and messiness of any birth. And that’s the wonder and glory of this night.

The Rev. Dr. Nancy Kraft, Ascension Lutheran Church, Towson, Maryland

Lane Connors, artist