Marsh Chapel Sermon Archive

Harken to Blessing: The keynote of the New Age, the call to a New Life. As the Cantata sings: “Let Your Word for us, that bright light, burn for us cleanly and purely”. To some degree our Gospel challenges us with a rigorously heavenly demand, in the heart of our very earthly condition. To some degree Gospel brings us humility, because we realize we can never achieve its height. To some degree the Gospel reminds us of the call of Jesus to his own age, and the earliest church to their own, as instruction in the interim, their shared expectation of the imminent End of the Age.

Think of a set of Russian dolls, eight dolls held one inside the other. As John Wesley advised: “every sentence is closely connected with what precedes and what follows it”.

The outside largest carries drawn cheeks, the sign of despondency, acedia, depression. Remarkably, here is blessing. There are none so thin as those who will not eat, and none so loved by God’s Christ as those who carry the weight of emptiness. The poor in spirit. Perhaps Luke, who simply says ‘fortunate are the poor’, means to caution us, as does all Christian tradition, against the temptations in abundance of possessions, or positions for that matter. The call of wisdom to happiness.

The next biggest doll, just inside the outside one, has tears. Tears require love, first. A young woman or man, suddenly ousted from a friendship or love, may be overcome by tears, and shocked that he or she could be so overcome. Love is like that, especially when it leaves the room. When there is a tear in the garment of self-control, self-sufficiency—mercy!—tears flow, but one knows by the measure of pain the power of love. You do not know what you have until it is gone. But the verse attends more directly to our shared condition, to the mourning that we feel when see the world as it is, and contrast that sight to the vision of the reign of God. So those who mourn by spirit do so in part over the hurtful waywardness of the world. We ever keep before us the 20% of children in our land awaking in poverty, the 10% of people hunting for work, the vast and unnecessary indebtedness of students and others, the cries of the needy from far and near. Wisdom beckoning to the real, the present, the future happiness.

Open the next one. Those who mourn know emptiness, and prepare the way for the meek. Meek like Moses. Doll three has bright eyes, blue they are and bright. Good things come to bright eyed dolls who can wait a little. Those alive to what is given, what is offered, what is provided, those with empty hands, may just inherit something. Wisdom is the herald of happiness.

Inside patience one finds hunger, a desire for what cannot be had on the cheap. So look at this fourth doll, whose lips are pursed. If faith is worthless, where is worth? If the church is useless, where is hope? If the ministry if outdated, where is meaning? If preaching is not worth doing, can you tell me what is? Tight lipped hunger for what is right, in the long run, brings the just, out of a love of love itself, and the withered long suffering to await it. The wisdom of Micah calls to the happiness of Matthew.

Mercy is the water of spiritual life, the hydration required for existence beyond the animal kingdom. See the fifth doll here, who smiles. All of us are better when we are loved, and all of us are made right when we are forgiven. Wisdom brings happiness.

Poor in spirit, then those who mourn, then the meek, then the hungry for justice, and then the merciful. Like an oyster bearing a pearl, they shape the hard jewel of the purity of the heart, which Kierkegaard said was to will one thing. Philosophers seek purity of heart. Intellectuals seek purity of heart. Scholars seek purity of heart. Academics sometimes seek purity of heart. Love of wisdom evokes happiness of heart.

Now the dolls are smaller, harder to see, harder to hold. The peacemaker stands with arms open, spread abroad, and ready to embrace. Our cantata balances a New Year prayer for New Life, not only for the individual but also for the community, for both person and country, ourselves and our land. We desire an expression of faith that is amenable to culture, and we desire a culture which is acceptable to faith. The disciplines of non-violence, well beyond the spiritual strength of most of us most of the time, demand the denial of self-protection. Could there be blessing here? Remarkably, the gospel of truth says ‘yes’. Here too wisdom commands happiness.

Our last Russian doll is so tiny. Narrow gate, straight way. There is no expression we can see, no posture, no gesture. For the sake of the New Age, some have suffered persecution. To be reviled in a good cause, to be libeled in a just struggle, to be harmed in a righteous conflict, somehow, it is hard to see how, but somehow is to receive a blessing. May those who are preaching across the country, and who with courage and counting the cost, enter the pulpit to announce freedom and grace, facing the challenges of this age, may they receive blessing, the blessing that comes with costly truth spoken. Here the persecution surrounding and threatening the primitive church may have made a later Matthean incursion into an inherited sermon: a tenor solo following a contralto aria, evangelist overtaking oral tradition.

Dr. Jarrett, as we listen to our cantata today, what notes of blessing and phrases of fortunate and sounds of grace shall we expect?

Written for the Sunday of New Years, when the church celebrates the naming of Christ in the temple, this cantata numbers among the many observances associated with the celebration of Christ’s birth.

The message of today’s cantata is direct and simple:
In the New Year, we need but call on the name – the name – of Jesus in each step of our lives, from beginning to end. And when we pray, it is through the name of Jesus that our petition approaches the throne of grace.

From the first movement, we sing a hymn – or fugue, in this case – in praise of God’s name. And as if we’re joining the celebration in the middle, there is no introduction. The fugue begins directly with the tenors’ statement of the subject. This corporate hymn of praise takes on personal, individual expression in the tenor arias that follows. The aria is bursting with assurance and bravado both from the tenor soloists and the two violinists whose bows never stop moving in the whole movement.

The central movement of the cantata is given to the alto, who forms a New Years Resolution of sorts about how and when to call on the name of Jesus.

The second aria captures the omni-presence of Christ in our lives – if we but call on his name. This soprano aria embodies the beauty of a life of faith and trust in his holy name.

The baritone then explains to us the ways in which we are taught to invoke the name of Christ, specifically when we pray. The smallest voice can reach the highest heaven through Christ redemptive power, a power available to all who but call on his name.

Our cantata draws to conclusion with a final chorale, here in festival form. The trumpe
ts and timpani return from the first movement, and the chorus of the church comes to life in a dance-like middle section.

The music is confident, assured, and bold from beginning to end. A mirror of the boldness and assurance offered through life in and through Christ Jesus. Here Bach gives musical voice to our New Year, and an exhortation to bear the name of Jesus each day throughout the year and through our earthly lives.

“Turn your blessing upon us. Give peace to every outcome.” The Cantata looks forward both to personal sanctification and to social holiness, blessings both individual and collective.

Hence, we have a ‘short summary of the teaching of Christ’. Harken to a voice of blessing:

“A voice sure of being heard, and musical, because it was the command not only of authority to obedience, but of wisdom to happiness”.

I have only one category A complaint about Boston. There are not enough snow days here. The schools rarely close, and the city rarely stops its commerce. There is a strength in this abstinence from snow days, but there also is a weakness.

On the eastern end of Lake Ontario, whence cometh some wisdom, there is more snow and there are more snow days, in Watertown and Pulaski and Syracuse. Sandy Creek took on 54 inches of snow a few weeks ago, that town on Route 11, which we call “a little bit of heaven on Route 11”.

That was a snow day, on the Tug Hill plateau. And a snow day is one day within in the Day of God on which all our strivings cease. A day that takes from our souls strain and stress and lets our ordered lives confess the beauty of God’s peace. A day of preventive interruption, a day of personal reckoning, a day of cleansing health—a day of grace, within the one Day of God.

Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound…of downy flakes…

At 5am on a snow day, teachers pray for a day with family. Children implore the ivory goddess to wait upon their needs. Dads look forward to canceling class (though never church), calling in for messages, unbundling the toboggan, digging out that old ‘tuke’, and living, for once, in the interrupted preventive grace of God that says, flake by flake: you are not God.

One of the great anticipated moments of life in our home, a home of teachers and students over some generations, has been the rapt 5am televiewing of school closings, for which all fervently pray, as, in other places, people light votive candles or clutch rosary beads or place prayer slips in temple walls. Please, oh please, please let this be a SNOW DAY. A Snow Day is a day of grace.

At judgment day you will not regret having spent a little time away from the office..

Come Sunday, Come Sundown, you will forget the many ordinary days, but the Snow day—the day of Dad’s chili bean soup, the day of igloos cut with precision, the day of chipping the ice together from the roof, the day of grace—this you will take with you into God’s presence, as a foretaste of heaven.

God knows, we need prevenient interruption. Otherwise, we think too much of our own doing, and too little of God.

What counts in life is the love of God.
What matters in existence is the grace of God.
What needs doing most, God has already done.
What costs most, God has given.
What we can trust, God has offered.

So, says St Paul, we do not preach ourselves—what we might do, what we might be, what we might accomplish—we preach Jesus Christ, and him crucified. Listen again to 1 Cor.11…

If we are not careful, if we do not accept the Snow Day, the day of prevenient grace, then we end up demanding Godly things of our spouse, expecting Godly achievement of ourselves, requiring Godly performance of our church, worshipping the creature and not the Creator, sculpting golden calves, and doing what most humans most of the time do—practicing idolatry.

There is one God and you are not God, nor is your husband, nor is your pastor, nor is your boss, nor is your parent, nor is your friend. Camus said, rightly, that culture is meant mainly as a setting wherein we remind each other that none of us is God. “They shall understand how they correct one another, and that a limit, under the sun, shall curb them. Each tells the other that he is not God.” Says Dorothy Day to Wall Street, “You are not God.” Says Julian Bond to white America, “You are not God.” Says Betty Friedan to the old boy network, “You are not God.” Says the Republican congress to the Democratic President, “You are not God.” And what does the President say? And in the new millenium, John Doe will remind women that they are not God either, and Jane Smith will remind children that they are not God either, and, if we can muster a little humility, we will all get by together, singing, “I am not God and you are not God, and we are not God together.”

But it takes a Snow Day, the interrupting, preventing grace of God.

One Snow Day, fifteen years ago, when I was dyingly anxious to finish my PhD, resurrect Methodism, become financially independent, and win “father of the year” awards—all by the close of business that Tuesday--ASAP, I happened to stop, in the late afternoon, for a pastoral call, another important interruptive. An elderly botany professor, known for her guided tours of nature and popular courses at Syracuse University, and once seen in her mid-seventies, swinging from the limb of a sycamore tree which she partly climbed in order to make some now forgotten scholarly point, recited this little charmer to me on a brilliantly snowy day, as we drank tea in the later afternoon. Cold it was that day, and snowy, a day for limericks, and laughter and love:

There once was a parson named Fiddle
Who refused to accept a degree
For he said, “’Tis enough to be Fiddle
“Without being Fiddle, DD”

She included the poem, in a card, a few years later, at graduation, to make sure I did not miss the point. Do you get it?

Says the Snow to you and me, “Fiddle de de, Fiddle DD”

When St Augustine in the fourth century was asked to teach his people about the Triune God, he offered this analogy: God the Father is like the Sun in the sky which lights and illumines and warms and gives life; God the Son is like the ray of sunlight that carries life and light and illumination and love to us; God the Spirit is like the touch of that sunray upon our cheek, which sustains and helps us, and which personally we feel.

But Augustine in sun and sand, like the young Camus. He preached with an African swing in his rhetoric: “bona bona, dona dona”—good gifts, good gifts. Had Augustine lived in Boston, and not along the sunny beaches of North Africa, had he lived in the cold Northern climate, and not amid blue sky and ocean view and warmth in February—I mean, hello?, what kind of life is that?—had he your perspective on reality, he might rather have offered this analogy: God the Father is like a great cumulonimbus cloud moving over the earth, ready to cover and cleanse and beautify; God the Son is like snow, lovely snow, falling upon us to cover and cleanse and beautify; God the Spirit is like the touch of each unique flake upon our tongues and cheeks as we skate on the Frog Pond (especially on Ground Hog Day at 1pm), and feel personally a power that does cover and cleanse and beautify.

Think how the Scripture would be different if it had co
me from New England, and not the warm climate of Palestine…

And God separated the snow banks from the snow banks, those from under the firmament, from those over the firmament, and God called the firmament heaven. And there was evening and morning, a second day.

And Abraham took his huskies to drink by the frozen lake, and there met Rebecca, who came to break the ice and draw water. And he said, “Pray, put down your pick ax and let me drink from the icy flow”.

And Pharaoh’s daughter saw a sled come by downhill, in which there was wrapped in a snowsuit, a little boy, named Moses. Pharaoh’s daughter took him home, and warmed him by the fire.

After the children of Israel had skated across the frozen Blue Sea, and Pharaoh’s army was in close pursuit, the Lord God sent a heat wave that melted the ice and Pharaoh, and his chariots and his army plunged down into the briney deep.

By the icicles of Babylon we sat down and wept as our tormentors said to us, sing to us one of the songs of Zion.

Save me O God! For the avalanche has cascaded upon me…I have fallen into deep drifts and the snow sweeps over me.

Many snow drifts cannot bury love, neither can blizzards smother it.

Let Justice roll down like an avalanche, and righteousness as an unending blizzard.

I baptize you with snow, but One is coming who will baptize you with fire

Except a man be born of snow and the spirit, he will not enter the kingdom of heaven.

God sends his snow upon the just and the unjust alike

The wise man built his house upon the rock. The snow fell, and the blizzard came and the lake effect wind blew and beat upon that house, but it did not fall, because it was built upon the rock.

In the winter of 1966 there fell a tremendous snow. Our little village, 1100 feet above sea level on the northern edge of the Allegheny plateau, received a sudden interruption. Schools closed. Programs were cancelled. Trips were postponed. For two weeks the town just stopped in its tracks. After a while, the supplies of milk and bread were running low. Danehy’s market sported bare shelves and empty aisles.

There was a gracious and liberating pause. Looking back, I can see the stresses of that year—all of them resounding around the little Colgate campus—racial attacks by town kids, the first 13 undergraduate women living in the Colgate Inn, Carson Veache’s father teaching English and burning draft cards and losing his job for it. Down came the snow, freeing us, freeing us from the role of Almighty God, and liberating our souls for an open future in the one Day of God.

That week, someone in Hamilton probably sat by the fire and read Josiah Royce: “Our world is the object of an all-inclusive and divine insight, which is thus the supreme reality.” Or Unamuno: “Cuidate solo de la idea que de ti Dios tenga”

Grace is not something you do, it is something that happens to you. Love is not something you own, it is something you receive and return. And sin is not taking what is offered.

I thought about this again, reading the Boston Globe on Thursday. I love to read the Globe. I love the occasional stories from the seacoast about fishing and scrimshaw and seafaring and lighthouses. I also love the long, detailed, personal obituaries, like the one beautifully written for Rev. Wells Grogan, formerly of First Church Cambridge. There was grace upon grace:

I have my greatest sense of well being while flying, he said.

His friends and parishioners remembered his preaching (‘When the sermon was about to start I settled in with great anticipation’), they remembered his courage (‘he showed us how to examine ourselves and to be honest, brutally honest’), they remembered his pastoral conversation (‘he knew how to have you over to the house and pour a glass of sherry and relax and have informal conversations’).

But it was the conclusion of the obituary that stood out: ‘One story he told was about his time as a prisoner of war, when the bread of life was more than metaphorical. ‘He was elected by the other prisoners to slice the bread; they had a half a loaf for 50 men. They trusted him to be fair. And when we went to his home he would slice the bread and tell us the story of when he was a prisoner, when he sliced so evenly that every slice was the same thickness as the others’.

When the 10 commandments proved not enough on their own—true and utterly on point as they are--God came to us, human to human, to free us from idolatry and settle a Snow Day on all our pride.

Snow interrupts. Snow invades and liberates. Snow falls from on high, heaven sent. Snow falls as friendly presence, freeing its recipients of study, of work, of routine, and allowing, even forcing, a moment of conviviality, and community, and time and space for family and exercise and unexpected pause. Snow is unpredictable, uncontrollable, varied, dangerous, seasonal, cleansing, soothing, quieting and disquieting, cool, comforting, friendly and free. Snow falls upon us like grace, or grace falls upon us like snow.

Here is a trusting voice, like one joyfully remembered in the Boston Globe this past week:

Our Scripture today, a declaration of Grace, puts all this very simply, all this about grace preventive and grace liberative and grace cleansing: he cured many.

This is personal! I had my own first snow day Friday! Our dean heard and preached the gospel:

“Luxuriate in the beauty…” she wrote. Yes!

I wonder about you this week. Will you accept a Snow Day if it is offered? Can you accept the white blanket of grace falling around your shoulders? Could you relax a bit a rely a bit on the Grace of God?

Here:

Would you accept the grace that gave you life?
That is Baptism.

Would you accept the grace that gives you the faith of
Jesus Christ?
That is Confirmation.

Would you accept the grace that gives you salvation?
That is Holy Communion.

Would you accept the grace that gives you
Companionship?
That is Marriage.

Would you accept the grace that gives you forgiveness?
That is prayer and counsel.

Would you accept the grace that gives you a calling?
That is ordination.

Would you accept the grace that calls you home?
That is blessing in the extreme and at the last.

So we will recite with Paul,

It is no longer I who live
But Christ who lives in me
And the life I now live in the flesh
I live by the faith of the Son of God
Who loved me and gave himself up for me.

King lived through a climate of hate. No stranger to “eliminationist rhetoric”, he fought back against those opposed to his message not with violence, but with peaceful protests. His words proved to be a valuable asset and mighty weapon. But his actions also spoke volumes, or perhaps those actions he chose not to resort to. Let’s not mistake that King was an ordinary man. I mean ordinary in the sense that he lived and breathed as a human being, conversed with friends, worked, studied, and had a family. In that regard, he lived like many of us do today. What made King extraordinary were the choices he made, not for the benefit of himself, but for the well-being of others. He recognized his role as leader, teacher, and motivator, and he followed his calling, seeking out justice by whatever loving means necessary.

Our reading from Isaiah today reflects a tumultuous time for the Israelites in which they were exiles in a foreign land in need of consolation and revitalization. A thematic element to this portion of what is referred to as Second Isaiah includes a new Exodus out of exile, reminiscent of the early Israelites under the leadership of Moses. In Isaiah, the Israelites once again find themselves in need of a leader, one called by God to encourage them to rise up, remember their Creator, and reach out to those in need. The prophet offered a message of hope and revival to a downtrodden and scattered nation. What we read today is a beautiful example of what it means to be called by God to live as proof that there’s more to this captive and oppressive life. Isaiah outlines three tenants to being called by God: first, recognition that we are indeed all called to be sons and daughters of God, diversely created and equally valued; second, the restoration of those communities and individuals around us that have trouble seeing and knowing their worth in the midst of chaos and hatred; and third, revelation, meaning we are all messengers of the Gospel through our actions and our words so much so that the revelation of God’s love and justice is evident in us and shines forth brightly from us through the darkness to the ends of the earth. The Israelites needed a wake up call – someone to help them recognize their worth and potential so they could rise up as people loved and called by God and ultimately shift their focus from inward to outward to help and lift up others.

Working at the University I have the opportunity to watch students move up and down Commonwealth Avenue, converse over dinner in the GSU, bask in the sun on Marsh Plaza, and rehash the lessons from their classes at Espresso Royale Café across the street. There is an excitement present that I recognize from my own past. Just starting out on their own, expanding their minds and experiencing new things, they see their lives as full of possibilities. Questions arise like, “Who am I?” and “What am I looking for?” The options are endless. They could take on the world, make real changes, and beat the odds. I felt this way when I was in college, and I still catch glimpses of it from time to time. An example of this today, at Boston University, can be found in BU Today’s story on this year’s MLK celebrations, in which a student asked, “How can we be great?” (2) What an honest and inviting question, spurring creativity and action.

Some call this naïve – the belief that dreams do come true and visions for the betterment of human life can be lived out. I call this wonderful, but often too short lived. Cold hard reality eventually sets in. Reality that change is hard, revival is difficult, and revelation is often an empty promise or offered only for a select few. Living out our true passions and calling takes a back seat to the daily demands of routine life. And that youthful enthusiasm buries itself deep inside of us, just waiting to be woken up once again.

When asked, “What are you looking for?” or better phrased “What are you seeking?” our Gospel reading today states the disciples, as clueless as ever, answered Jesus’ question with a question, “Teacher, where are you staying?” In true comedic fashion, when alerted to the fact by John the Baptist that they were standing in the midst of the Lamb of God, they chose not to bow or grovel; instead they seem to only ask for Jesus’ mailing address. I think at first glance it’s easy to interpret our reading this way. The disciples have a reputation for not always catching on to what Jesus said or meant during his human life on earth. The underlying message of the parables was usually lost to the disciples, and they always asked questions that warranted a simple answer. But there’s more to be said about the disciples’ response. From their question, “where are you staying,” the translation of the word “stay” from the Greek word “menow” may be better phrased as to abide, remain, or continue, the same word John the Baptist used earlier in our reading to describe the Spirit from heaven remaining on Jesus after his baptism. It hinges on the notion of permanence or constancy. It implies an inner dwelling, a more eternal home instead of a transitory living place.

Perhaps the disciples answered Jesus’ question the most beautiful and brilliant way of all. They weren’t looking for Jesus address on a map. No, they desired the presence of Jesus, the eternal life and love to be ever alive with them and through them. With self abandon and eager anticipation to change the world, they understood their calling from Jesus to “come and see” where to find the true meaning of the gospel and how to live it out. In the same model of Isaiah, the disciples shift from recognition to restoration and even further towards making the great revelation known to all people. Inward to outward. From ourselves to helping those around us. From Jesus as human to the eternal loving presence of Christ within each one of us.

Martin Luther King Jr. could have never known the impact he would have on the country and its history. What was he seeking? He was seeking ways to improve the well-being of all the U.S. citizens, regardless of race. He was seeking God’s presence in the midst of chaos and hatred. He was seeking the meaning of the Gospel in every day life for African Americans. And he was seeking the words and actions to bring justice to a very unjust country and society. He wanted nothing more than to take others with him, to walk along the road together, to find the place where Jesus lived and breathed, ate and slept. And he did exactly that – because Jesus was a part of him, deep inside. Jesus could be found in King’s presence.

In this climate of hate, we have the choice to be ex
tremists, as King once noted – extremists of hate or love. King said, “Perhaps the South, the nation and the world are in dire need of creative extremists.” (3) Modeling Jesus’ extremists actions and words full of love, goodness and truth, we all have the potential to seek these aspects creatively, in ways relevant to the needs of our own society in 2011, if we’re willing to heed the call. One of the most prevalent needs, across the political divides and religious arrays, reaching beyond the borders of our country throughout the entire world, is the acceptance and full inclusion of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender folk as human beings, deserving the same dignity and respect as others. As Secretary of State Hilary Clinton recently said and has stated in the past, “Gay rights are human rights.” (4)

I was recently asked by a BU Today journalist, “Is King’s message still relevant today?” I didn’t hesitate to answer, Absolutely. He modeled how we should be living each and every day, messengers of the Gospel, seekers of justice, reminders of beauty and love. If we feel that King’s message is losing relevance, then it’s our own fault. The biblical message of righteousness, love and freedom for all people is not time or culturally specific. Discrimination and oppression run rampant and they must be stopped. As King noted, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” (5) We have a lot of work to do. We celebrate days like King’s birthday because we too easily forget the injustices of the past and the ways to overcome them.

We are forgetful people. The purpose of days like today are to remember, to wake us up and call us into consciousness. Because too often we sleep walk through life, not fully aware of our true potential or the beauty in those who surround us each and every day.

We forget our worth and our capabilities. We forget what we’re seeking and where to find it. Like the Israelites in Isaiah, we too need to be reminded of our calling, our abilities to change the world for good, and our need to seek justice. We can learn from the students surrounding us, from their hopes and aspirations, from their work with various causes for goodness. The students I work with each week are daily reminders of the importance of following a calling and seeking out the love of Jesus. They strive for the inclusion of LGBT people in all aspects of life, and I know they won’t stop until changes are made and hatred is overcome. And these students face discrimination and hatred in ways that many of us can’t begin to comprehend. Jokes are made, punches are thrown, and doors are closed simply because of an aspect to the intricate and complex weavings of their inmost being.

I know this message too well. Growing up, all I ever wanted to do was work for God. As a child, my mother called me the “little evangelist” because of my excitement and love for God that I felt necessary to share with my friends. A little older, and I started to realize that fire inside for the gospel might mean something. And when I shared my thoughts to those in authority over me, I was pushed aside because of my gender. Women can’t be ministers; it says so in the Bible. Not swayed, I left that tradition in search of a place I could express my desire to serve God as a woman. I was then pushed aside again – this time because of my sexual orientation. I started to doubt myself and my calling and sought out other avenues of work. But nothing could satisfy my thirst like the ministry. After being told I was wrong for so long, I started to believe it, though. And I started to forget what truly made me feel alive.

People often approach me ask, “After all you’ve been through and seen in the Church, why do you bother to stay? Why not leave the church altogether?” I look at them with a puzzled glance and say, “How could I leave?” There have certainly been times where I’ve wanted to walk away, forget it all, and turn my back on people who disregard so much of the Gospel message. But in those times, I don’t get very far before a tug at my heart starts. Many of you know to what I’m referring. It starts out in a small quiet way, doesn’t it? A gentle nudge, or a quick tinge. Then it becomes a little stronger. By the end, there’s no question someone is trying to get your attention. You have two options in that moment: turn around and accept the difficulty and challenges of being chosen by God, or to keep walking - pushing aside the feelings until you’re numb and you forget who you are and what is was you were seeking.

Church leaders in King’s time claimed the social concerns of the day, such as segregation and deeply embedded racism did not concern the gospel. Some today would say the same of LGBT social issues. But, I completely disagree. The gospel is not boxed in, hidden in a corner, and turned to only for seemingly religious issues. When Jesus encouraged the disciples to “come and see” his invitation didn’t stop with those two men in the beginning of John. It expanded and grew to all people throughout all of time. When social concerns reflect oppression of people and groups of people and neglect human rights, the gospel must be concerned. We must be concerned, if we call ourselves followers of Christ and bearers of the Good News. Righteousness must always be sought out and acted upon. It’s time to rise up. Move past our differences and put forth our creative energy towards the well-being of all people instead of arguing over who’s allowed the freedom of the Gospel and who’s not.

There is no good found in eliminationist rhetoric. This kind of speech is hate-filled instead of love-filled. The bullying and suicides of young lesbian and gay children and teens are quickly becoming an epidemic – and we must find a cure. And through it all, we must remember how far we’ve come – because progress has been made. We remember Harvey Milk, the first openly gay man to be elected to public office who also lost his life due to extremists of hate, those seeking violence instead of the loving and inclusive example of Jesus. Diversity should be celebrated – after all, aren’t we all living and breathing because of the same Creator? Dean Hill uses the phrase, “the expansion of the circle of human freedom.” King helped this expansion, and I hope today we all work to expand the circle until it encompasses all people.

Living a life worthy of the gospel is risky business. History proves that to us. It’s often easier to blend in than to stand out. It’s easier to keep quiet than cause a commotion. But life through Christ isn’t about keeping quiet. Like Isaiah, we are called to speak up. And like Jesus once said in the Gospel of Matthew, “You are the light of the world. Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to God in heaven.” The time is ripe, my friends, to let that light shine brightly.

Let us remember the triumphs and the mistakes from the past so that we may celebrate progress and learn to not fall back on actions that inhibit freedom and equality. Let us humble ourselves amongst one another as we recognize the eternal presence of Jesus throughout all of creation and humanity. Let us each bring our own gifts and passions to the table so that we may learn how to creatively work through our differences instead of resorting to hateful actions and words. Let us be open to the quiet yet firm voice of God nudging us to follow our calling as justice seekers and messengers of hope and the Good News.

Perhaps King described living out the Gospel and seeking justice best when he said, “I choose to identify with the underprivileged. I choose to identify with the poor. I choose to give my life for the hungry. I choose to give my life for those who have been left out of the sunlight of opportunity. I choose to live for those who find themselves seeing life as a long and desolate corridor wi
th no exit sign. This is the way I'm going. If it means suffering a little bit, I'm going that way. If it means sacrificing, I'm going that way. If it means dying for them, I'm going that way, because I heard a voice saying, `Do something for others.'" (6) Amen.

Love and serve each other in the name of the faithful God who calls us to be God’s people. May God’s Holy Spirit lead you, may God’s strength protect you. May God’s peace be with you. Amen.

Endnotes
1. Krugman, Paul, “Climate of Hate,” The New York Times, January 9, 2011. Found at: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/10/opinion/10krugman.html.
2. Cornuelle, Kimberly, “University to Celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr. Day,” BU Today, January 14, 2010. Found at: http://www.bu.edu/today/node/12128.
3. King, Martin Luther King, Jr., “Letter From a Birmingham Jail,” April 16, 1963.
4. Eleveld, Kerry, “The Advocate: Issue #1045,” January 2011.
5. King, Martin Luther King, Jr., “Letter From a Birmingham Jail,” April 16, 1963.
6. From The Autobiography of Martin Luther King, Jr., ed. by Clayborne Carson (New York: Time Warner Co.,1998). Found at:http://www.springfieldfranciscans.org/document/MLK.pdf

Ted Williams made a re-appearance this week, though not within the confines of Fenway Park. A roving reporter in Columbus, Ohio heard and recorded the voice of a homeless man so named, a voice from heaven, or at least from beyond the normal ranges of human speech. What a voice!

Is there anything quite as personal as one’s voice?

A fingerprint, a birth date, a manner of laughter, all these are quite personal, but not quite as personal as one’s voice.

I have a friend, a colleague in ministry, who has endured a stroke. His voice, his pulpit voice is so precious and so personally his, so central and so meaningful to so many, that I feared greatly it might have gone. But I am told his voice perseveres. What a voice!

Is there anything quite as personal as one’s voice?

As we age we do notice other unique features of our being, ways peculiarly are own. Our manner of grieving is one of those. We all ride the same waves in grief, the waves of denial and anger and acceptance, and the waves of remembrance and thanksgiving and affirmation. But we surf the waves in our own very particular way, with our own voice. What a voice!

Is there anything quite as personal as a voice?

Will you permit me to say something very personal, speaking of the personal character of one’s voice? As we age we take notice of quite unique features of our being, ways of being particularly our own. Our manner of dying is one of those. It is a signature, our signature, our very signature. The early Methodists (read David Hempton) placed great store and stock in the manner of dying, holy living yes, but holy dying too. They offered no recipe. To the contrary: They saw and knew the utterly personal voice, like the silver swan’s, which resounds, like a steeple bell, in the personal way we die. Such a voice…

Is there anything more tellingly personal?

Hear the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the good news offered us today: the voice of heaven is known in Jesus, a voice of one loved, of one who loves, of one who teaches love, of one whose self offering is love.

This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.

Here is the divine signature, the divine fingerprint, the divine birth date, the divine manner of laughter, the divine voice, the voice from heaven which rings out today: my beloved Son.

Here too is the divine signature, the divine way of grieving, the divine way of dying, the divine voice, the voice from heaven which rings out today: my beloved Son.

Is there anything more personal than a voice?

St. Matthew implores us to hear in the way he rewrites the story. Matthew write in 85ce, updating and changing and developing what Mark wrote in 70ce. There is such a power and beauty in watching the faithful creative courage by which the New Testament writers adjust the preaching of the Gospel each to their own time and place. In our reading today, John the Baptist is clearly demoted, lowered but retained to fulfill all righteousness. Jesus is the actor in the drama, whose movement up out of the water is immediate. We are forcefully told that the dove like Spirit is unmistakably the Spirit of God. The voice from heaven speaks to us: This is! This is my beloved. Mark and Luke, Matthew’s verses imply, may have the words right, but they lack volume and verve: my beloved Son!

May we hear the voice from heaven, rippling in the river waters of the Jordan, and in the mystery of creation. May we hear the voice of heaven, carried along in the career of Christ, resounding in the heart and the conscience, and in the history of the community of faith. Creation and mystery, conscience and history. Creation and mystery, conscience and history. Are you searching for faith, longing for faith, growing in faith? Hear a voice from heaven, in creation and conscience.

The psalmist says, the heavens are telling the glory of God and the firmament proclaims his handiwork. Day to day pours forth speech, and night to night declares knowledge. There is no speech nor are there words. Their voice is not heard. Yet their voice goes out to all the world and their words to the end of the earth.

Listen to the mystery of creation.

13 Billion years ago, SOMETHING HAPPENED. An infinitesimal nothing exploded into an immeasurable something. 13 billion years ago.

Since then the Universe has continued to expand and cool down. Like many a middle aged fellow, our world is getting bigger and a little slower.

The farther out in space we look, the farther back in time we see: think quasar, think red shift, think black hole. The universe has neither a center nor an edge.

4.6 Billion years ago, our neighborhood solar system came to be, with carbon, oxygen, silicon and iron. Gravity had something to do with it, pulling together gas and dust. Nuclear reactions too had something to do with it.

3.8 Billion years ago, our beloved Mother Earth, within the aforementioned solar system, cooled enough, just enough, so that a single cell of life emerged.

3 Billion years ago, the process of photosynthesis, and hence an increase in earth’s oxygen, developed.

2 Billion years ago, a billion years of photosynthesis in motion later, the earth was full of the glory of oxygen.

½ Billion years ago, 500 million years ago that is (actually, to be precise, 540 million years ago), there occurred the so-called Cambrian explosion, a veritable plethora, cornucopia, flood tide and pleroma of life forms, including a personal favorite, trilobites.

¼ Billion years ago, or to be exact about 240 million years ago, great dinosaurs populated the earth.

1/20 Billion years ago (or, more exactly, 65 million years ago), these self same dinosaurs, kings of the earth, were summarily and totally extinguished, perhaps by a comet hitting earth. But the disappearance of the dinosaurs made space for the appearance of other life forms.

4.5 million years ago, just yesterday in a way, your first ancestor appeared, a hominid.
100,000 years ago, just a few minutes ago, homo sapiens appeared on earth.

30,000 years ago, forms of cultural life, including art and creativity and agriculture and weaponry, began slowly to develop.

2,500 years ago, the Bible began to be composed and collected.

See: The Big Bang, at the NYC Museum of Natural History.

One day you may look down at your left hand, at two fingers there, and you may again, childlike, awake just to this, something not nothing. Creation. The mystery of something not nothing.

A poetic New England voice said this more simply. We thank Thornton Wilder for his brevity.

We are in New England so we shall lift up a New England memory. You remember the letter Jane Crofut got from her minister when she was sick. On envelope it said: To Jane Crofut; The Crofut Farm; Grover’s Corners; Sutton County; New Hampshire; United States of America; Continent of North America; Western Hemisphere; Earth; Solar System; the Universe
; the Mind of God…and the postman brought it just the same.

Creation. Mystery.

Our psalmist today says: The voice of the Lord is over the waters. The voice of the Lord is powerful. The voice of the Lord causes the oaks to whirl, and strips the forest bare; and in his temple, all say ‘Glory’.

Listen to the history of conscience. We are not the first to find ourselves awestruck, singing ‘Glory’. Our hearts are restless, until they find their rest…

You are part of a history of conscience, a long train of witnesses. In fact, we can carry the memory of Christian reflection in the model of a single day. A brief history of Christian thought carries us from to dusk.

Conscience. History.

Dawn: Jesus is Crucified and Risen. His Gospel is preached by Paul. The Synoptic Gospels are written to preach the same Gospel, with the aid of His story, teachings, deeds. Other letters are written to apply the Gospel to the growth of the church.

Morning: In response to the small Bible (Luke and the Letters of Paul) of Marcion, a Roman Gnostic, the Christian Bible (66 books) is assembled. John translates the preaching of the Gospel into the idiom of neo-platonic, gnostic thought.

Late Morning: Augustine of Hippo, converted from Manicheaism (an eastern Gnosticism), develops a full theological system, relying largely on Paul, in conflict with the British Monk Pelagius. Both Reformers and Counter Reformers rely later on him.

Noon: Thomas Aquinas in the 12th century constructs a medieval theological system, blending the basics of Aristotelian philosophy with the Scripture and tradition of the church.

Afternoon: The medieval synthesis begins to unravel under the influence of the early renaissance and pre-reformation.

Late Afternoon: The great reformers of Germany (Luther), France (Calvin) and England (H8 and later Wesley) shatter the Roman medieval synthesis on the basis of faith alone, Scripture alone, and a return to Augustine and Paul.

Evening: Post-Enlightenment modern theology reaches its zenith in the 19th\mid 20th century work of liberals (Schleiermacher), neo-orthodox thinkers (Barth) and culminates in the last full systematic theology to date (Tillich).

Dusk: Post-modern Christian theology, skeptical of universal systems, and indebted to particular, autobiographical witnesses, accentuates the varieties of religious experience and theological perspective (Black: Cone, Latino: Guttierez, Asian: Koyama, Feminist: Ruether, Canadian: Hall, other).

See: Robert Allan Hill, Meditations from Marsh Chapel

You know, children know, the voice of conscience. To bring humility. To scorn laziness. To admit failure, mistake, accident. To stand apart from religion, its pride and sloth and falsehood, its superstition and idolatry and hypocrisy.

A poetic New England voice said this more simply. We thank Amos Wilder, Thornton’s brother, for his brevity.

One said of him: His wartime experience recorded in his early poetry opened him up to the catastrophic depths of humanity, while his vision of hope, derived from his biblical story, allowed him to press beyond the negative limits of his time. His poetic eye enabled him to see connections between the Bible and literature, the Kingdom of God and modern ethics, religious experience and contemporary symbols. (AW, W, 2).

Conscience. History.

The voice from heaven, in mystery and history. The voice from heaven, in creation and conscience.

By this voice we are set upon a path that will set us apart. It is a path of love, joy and peace. It is a path of deep personal faith and active social involvement. It is a path of believing, belonging and behaving. It is a path that moves from the self -centered to the centered self. It is a path of costly discipleship not of cheap grace, a path of living for others through a religion-less Christianity. It is a path of commitment, delight, and wonder. It is a path of salvation. The need is salvation and the way is faith.

We apply the Gospel to ourselves, this morning, as a people again confronted by the tragedy of violence. Our prayerful thoughts go out to those hurt and worse in Tucson. For our part, we shall try again this week to learn and speak the language of love. We shall commit and commend ourselves to mimic the voice of heaven, however lispingly we shall do so. Let our words be those of encouragement, of contrition, of honest kindness and kind honesty, in public and in private.

The voice from whom we come and to whom our spirits shall return. Blessed by God, loved by God, held by God, known by God, meant for God, baptized for God. What a voice!

A voice from heaven, in creation and conscience, given for the healing of the earth, all of the earth.

The voice from heaven is spread through the earth. In season and out. In church and out. In religion and out. In the city and in the country. On the dry land of experience and out in the river Jordan of faith.

What a voice!

Six years ago, a friend and I stopped at a country book sale. He bought a volume or two of English history. I bought a 1934 edition of Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. I read in it every now and then. Six years later, this past week, I came upon page 768, and here is what I read: “A voice sure of being heard, and musical, because it was the command not only of authority to obedience, but of wisdom to happiness”.

The dawn is breaking, slowly, over the snow-blanketed city. You have assembled yourself for the morning, with your coat and hat and mittens. You stand like a medieval knight with his standard, you with your broom or shovel in hand, and dawn is breaking, slowly a week after the great snowfall. You are ready to start.

Shakespeare knew the beauty and terror of the dawn:

The great poet and playwright knew, as was said of our Lord in his earthly ministry, knew the heart of man. He knew the complexity of moral judgment. He knew the ambiguity of corporate and governmental life. He knew the strange subterranean interplay of spirituality and sexuality. He knew the elusive mobility of truth, which, to be spoken, requires a lifetime of rapt attention, and sometimes years of isolated pain and imprisonment. What this country may need to start a new year is neither a chicken in every pot nor a good 5 cent cigar nor a plain, new, fair, or square deal, but, a rivetingly taught course or two in Shakespeare!

As you start, at whatever dawn you face, ponder this Good News: Christ gives strength to start. A new year? Strength to start. A new path? Strength to start. A new relationship? Strength to start. A new diagnosis? Strength to start. A new commitment? Strength to start. A new situation? Strength to start. Christ offers strength to start.

In the first place, we may plainly affirm that together we find strength in Christ.

We listen to the words of St Matthew, the story of the Magi, and we hear them as God’s Word. The words of Scripture are “holy” in that they stand over against us, they take the measure of our self-deception, they outlast our passions and defeats and very lives. These verses will live longer than we, and rightly so. They will still be heard when we will not be. So they have the power to help us to begin the service, the day, the week, the year.

The words of Scripture start with the whole of life in view and with the end of life in view.

We too must make our various beginnings, and so we are not displeased to find here an inspired manner of entry. By example the Kings assert strength to start.

The passage opens the year with joy, and leads us into a new vocabulary of love and delight. Words of wisdom, that the Kings celebrate, and which will adorn the Gospel as the gospel unfolds. These words are meant to become our living vocabulary, dictionary, glossary. We are to learn them again as the New Year unfolds:

Grace
Peace
Thanksgiving
Saints together
Gifts-charismata
Guiltless
Fellowship
In Christ
God is faithful

Oh that we would bathe ourselves at the outset of each day in such a shower of strength!

For you, all of you, have been found in a new situation. You are “in Christ”.

Start the day strong—much will befall to challenge by dusk.
Start life strong in childhood—much comes later to unsettle.
Start with laughter and play in summer—much in autumn proves more difficult.
Start this New Year with strength, and like a skier carried along by gravity, you will pass by and over and around the bumps.
Start this week and each week with the hearing of the Holy Word—much that is less than holy will greet you later.

In the second place, we may plainly affirm that the gifts of Christ are reliable in time of need, are firm in the face of danger. They make us confident when we need to be and inwardly secure when we have to be.

Whether we young or mature or old, whether we are babes in Christ or approved in Christ or wise in Christ—we make our starts with strength, recognizing that, as one author began one famous book, ‘life is hard and life is a struggle’.

For the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to the people of skill, but time and chance happen to them all.

Life is not fair, not by a country mile.

Not fair to those who suffer untimely loss
Not fair to those stricken with unexpected illness
Not fair to those whose limbs are taken and torn
Not fair to those who should have been chosen
Not fair to you

Time and chance happen to all.

Is this not fairly the heart of the simple gifts we shall share in a moment at the Lord’s Table, and at the Lord’s behest? It was a borrowed upper room, not a paid for condo, in which the meal was shared. It was a circle tinged with betrayal, not a safe protected team, within which he washed feet and lifted cup. It was an evening before defeat, not a twilight of victory past, during which wine and bread were given. It was lack that gave way at last to hope, treachery that was the doorway to a later hope, suffering, the suffering of the cross, that made way for the hope in which we now stand.

Whatever harsh word you now have reason to hear and overhear, hold on. It is not the last word.

Start with that trust and strength.

Paul suffered shipwreck and lash and hunger and despond. Yet he could still sing with confidence:

If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation…

He who has begun a good work in you will complete it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ…

Have you begun with the Spirit to end with the flesh?…

It is the God who said ‘Let light shine out of darkness’ who has shown in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ…

He is the beginning, the first born from the dead that in everything he might be pre eminent…

For the Son of God, Jesus Christ, whom we preached among you, was not Yes and No, but in him it is always Yes. For all the promises of God find their Yes in him…

Resolve to choose and memorize one of these verses of hope wrought in struggle.

Whatever silence and despair now accompany you, hold on. Your lasting friendship is in Christ.

Martin Luther recounted his many attempts to find peace with God through self-discipline, through religious duty, through acts of contrition, through his own works, until at last he collapsed.

At last he found his way out from the harsh word of command from authority to obedience, and out into the meadow of hope in a calling word from wisdom to happiness, from the Kings to the Christ.

“But this availed me nothing; nor did it free me from a fearful and dreadful conscience…This is God’s Word… this one thing God asks of you, that you honor him by accepting comfort; believe and know that he forgives your transgressions and has no wrath against you.”

We learn late or early that without explanati
on rain falls on the just and unjust alike. In time of trial, though, you may start again with strength. You have the love of God, the Gospel of Christ, the Grace of the Lord, the baptism of the church, the prayers of the church, the Lord’s prayer, the ten commandments, the sacrament of communion, the word of absolution, and the decision of faith. Use them, rely on them, let them buoy you up, in time of trial.

In the third place, we may plainly affirm the strength that comes from beginning with the end in view. Though they found him an infant, one who does not speak, they saw him a King, One whose voice rings out to all the world.

This Epiphany Sunday reminds us that the Lord Christ is both Alpha and Omega. When at last we set down our various tools and trades, when at last we have lost our eyes and ears, when at last the various dawns have given way to dusk and dusk and dusk—here too we are in Christ and nowhere else, of Christ and no one else. Somehow all the little subplots and sufferings of this present time are going to find their full place and point in a greater story, the day of God, the life-span of Jesus Christ. Today is God’s, and tomorrow is God’s, too.

Only such a hope can sustain travelers such as we, who seek wisdom and who seek love, even as that hope has sustained the church for sixty some generations. Such a hope strengthens the Magi: unsung saints and heroines, and those whose names recall a sure strength to start. Some are enshrined in Scripture: Matthew, Paul, Mary, John. Some are known in Tradition: Ghandi, Heschel, Sadat, Teresa. Some are from closer experience: Harriett Tubman, William Seward, Comfort Tyler, Robert Laubach. One greets us on this plaza every morning, with birds in flight, emblematic of a strength to start. Only such a hope could have strengthened Martin Luther King on August 28 1963 in Washington and all the long bitter way to April 3 1968, his last earthly night: “I just want to do God’s will. And he has allowed me to go to the mountain. And I’ve looked over, and I’ve seen the promised land…So I’m happy tonight, I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man.”

You start with confidence about the end. You are strengthened to start in the hope of Jesus Christ.

Strength to start.
Strength to start in Christ
Strength to start in times of trial
Strength to start with hope for the end

Put on the whole clothing of Christ!

As you stand at the dawn of the rest of life…
We will put it in terms familiar…

Put on the whole wardrobe of Christ

Put on the sweater of grace
Put on the boots of peace
Put on the mittens of thanksgiving
Put on the tuke of fellowship
Put on the scarf of faithfulness
Put on the snowsuit of sanctification
Pick up the shovel of salvation
And the ice-pick of hope
And the salt of happiness

For in Christ, at New Year’s, you are given a strength to start.

Our lesson from Holy Scripture emphasizes two basic Christmas teachings. The first is the reminder of life as a journey and of faith as spiritual itinerancy. Joseph dispatches the Magi, who themselves go home by another way, and then flees for a time to Egypt, only later to return Nazareth. The birth of Jesus occasions a journey of faith.

The second reminder to us is of the God who keeps promises. Three separate events are said to transpire (flight to Egypt, slaughter of children, return to Nazareth), all in fulfillment of prophecy. While Hosea spoke of Israel, Matthew claims his words for Jesus. While Jeremiah spoke of exile to Babylon, Matthew claims his words for Herod. While Isaiah speaks of a messianic King, Matthew claims his words for the son of Mary. The birth of Jesus marks the protection of a divine promise.

We may want to pause just for a moment to reflect upon the glad tidings of great joy.

To do so, we need to clear away the straw and brush of some stress.

As the pastor responded, when asked by his civic club to speak about the miracle of Christmas, and the mystery of the Nativity, “Why certainly. It would be my pressure…I mean pleasure”.

There is much pleasure coming to this Nativity. But there is pressure as well.

You may consider the strange chaos of this season, for a moment of limited peace this morning. You may wonder about the stress of the holidays. Why so stressful? Their mixture of high expectation and low experience? Their year end blizzard of financial and social obligations? Their sudden reconfluence of families and generations? Their odd rhythms and paces? The rude manger? The journey to Egypt? Whence the stress?

Our ancient Scriptures suggest another source of our anxiety, at Nativity, if we have such on this very day of peace. It is this. Christmas places us unmistakably before the presence of the Holy, of all that is Holy, at Nativity. The pressing of this moment, our stress, comes from our vague premonition of the divine, of our sense of the Holy. It is an awesome and startling moment to find yourself in the presence of all that is Holy. Joseph can tell us, as he races toward Egypt. Do you feel today the presence of the Holy One?

The ancient Israelites would understand, and recall our need to love the Lord our God with all our heart and soul and mind and strength.

The prophet Isaiah would understand, and recite again his vision of the temple, “Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord of hosts, heaven and earth are full of God’s glory”.

The virgin Mary would understand, singing, “My soul does magnify the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior”.

The apostle Paul would understand and record, “It is the God who said ‘Let light shine out of darkness’ who has shown in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.”

The evangelist John would understand, and teach, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the word was God.”

Every mystic and part-mystic from Dionysius the Aereopagite, to Amoun of Nitria, to Santa Teresa of Avila, to Howard Thurman would understand, and affirm, “the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom”.

Rudolph Otto said it for his generation, “the mysterium tremendum et fascinans”. The sudden sense of God, present.

And you? And me? And we?

To be alive at Christmas, in life’s journey and under the promises of God, is to reckon with the Holy. Hence our stress.

Before all that is Holy, then, a question, a question of soul inevitably arises. Hence our stress.

How am I living?

Have I asked too little of myself or too much of myself? Or have I asked too much for myself or too little for myself? The awesome wonder of Nativity provokes a mortal question: “Have you asked enough of yourself, and have you asked enough for yourself?”

In the presence of all that is Holy, we can come clean… Thou before whom no secrets are hidden, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit that we may more fully love thee and more worthily magnify thy Holy name…

Some of us ask too much of ourselves. We work 80 hours when 60 would be better, wrap 10 gifts when 4 would suffice, do 100% of our relational work and 30% of every one else’s. You ask too much of yourself.

Some of us ask too little of ourselves. We pass through life unaware of the bruising our narcissism inflicts on others. We do not pray in the morning, or worship on Sunday. We have not climbed the front step of faith which is tithing, nor knocked on the front door of faith which is giving away annually 10% of what we earn, nor entered the front room of faith which is discovering the joy of a tenth given. We do not keep full faith with our partners, spouses, friends. You ask too little of yourself.

Some of us ask too much for ourselves. So we create a world that is post-Christian . A world of pervasive materialism, preemptive war, limited literacy, flat spirituality, inherited entitlement, shallow sexuality, Machiavellian leadership, computerized e-buse, and disrespect for elders. We crowd the malls at 7am on the day after Christmas, hungry for a sacrament in consumption that merely consumes the consumer. You ask too much for yourself.

Some of us ask too little for ourselves. The Christmas vision of peace gets dim. The reality of love is blurred. The singing moments of joy are lost in the shuffle. We forget who we are meant to be. Are we lovers anymore? You ask too little for yourself.

How will any of us ever get this balance right? Before all that is Holy?

You know, we will never get it right.

Not fully.

A person who lives in isolation, neither giving nor receiving, may ask too little of himself.

A young woman struggling with issues of identity and behavior may ask too little for herself.

A young man raised in a morally heightened atmosphere, where expectations are very high, may ask too much of himself.

A woman at midlife, who has enjoyed much, too much pleasantry, may ask too little of herself.

A man, who has worked hard, and also was well placed in life, may ask too little of himself.

It is the conscience, of course, at Nativity, that place us, creation and conscience, before the Holy.

Nor is there one, even one, among us who has fully balanced, rightly balanced, the question of what we ask of ourselves with what we ask for ourselves.

Some of us this morning need to lean back and ask a little less of ourselves. Some of us this morning need to lean forward and ask a little more of ourselves.

While we do, though, while we engage again the balances of spirit, perhaps we could remember the good news of the Nativity. This news of glad tidings and great joy is a matter of full health and salvation for you, and trusting this gospel with life, your life, is a matter of life and death.

You see, if there were no pardon or peace in the universe, then we would have to get everything exactly right, or we would be doomed. If grace were like Newton’s gravity, and once you fell you kept on falling without pardon or peace, we would be doomed. If grace were like Marx’s history, and “moved with iron necessity toward inevitable results”, we would be doomed. If there were never any forgiveness available, before all that is Holy, we w
ould never be able to be at peace, or to act with grace, or to live any other than fear ridden, guilt obsessed, self centered lives. Hell. What a life that would be.

This is why John Wesley asked his one question. Do you know God to be a pardoning God? Not, do you believe, only, or hope, only, or feel, only, but do you know…

He breaks the power of canceled sin, he sets the prisoner free.

At Nativity, at Christmas, before the Holy, we are set free from…well?...you name it…that regret for… that word unfitly spoken, that event not foreseen and not forestalled, that deed you wish you could revisit, that memory from an autumn morning, or a midnight dream—they all engulf, and overwhelm, unless…

Nativity.

Dearest friend, the Holy Child of Bethlehem is God’s own pardon, God’s own peace, God’s own love to embrace you whether you lean backward or forward or both. As Howard Thurman, a some time mystic wrote,

When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and the princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flocks,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among brothers,
To make music in the heart.

We should not let the beauty of Thurman’s poetry obscure the wisdom of this theology. His great poem is about Nativity not morality. The work, here, is God’s. The work of finding, healing, feeding, releasing, rebuilding, bringing peace and music to the heart…this is the work of Grace, born in Bethelem of Judea in the days of Herod the King. The work is work done in Jesus the Christ. Oh, we may help, like at Christmas the 3 year old helps his mother to set the table. He drops the fork, and breaks the cup, and spills the water. She is grateful for his help, and help he should. But she it is who has the meal in hand. The feast is prepared, the table is spread. A word of grace is said. Kitchen, and dining room, and table are all prepared.

Sursum Corda. Lift up your hearts. Hear the gospel:

You are forgiven. You are accepted. You are healed. You are loved.

Mild he lays his glory by
Born that we no more may die
Born to raise us from the earth
Born to give us second birth
Hark! The herald angels sing
Glory to the newborn king.

Amen.