Love Came Down

“Love came down at Christmas,” the lovely Christmas poem, the lovely Christmas carol goes, “love all lovely, love divine. Love was born at Christmas, stars and angels gave the sign.” In the gift of Jesus Christ, Jesus the baby born in a manger, love came down. Love came down as God’s greatest gift ever imaginable.

Love came down at Christmas to Mary, a young, petrified, innocent, and faithful woman, a teenager who could have run the other way when she heard the news, but stood strong and sang a song of faithfulness and love instead. Love came to this teenager who felt called to give up her life for this miracle, this little baby she had been carrying for so long and had just welcomed into the world. Love came down at Christmas to Joseph, also very young, also very scared, to this man who had so much that society expected him to do, to be. Love came to this man who had every right to walk away, but instead chose to stand by the side of his beloved, to trust her and care for her and welcome this baby into the world. Love came down at Christmas to the animals who probably wanted to get the heck out of the way when the normal quietness of their night was pierced by the cries of a newborn baby. Love came to them as they stood watch over him that night. Love came down at Christmas to the shepherds, the poor and destitute souls in the fields charged with keeping watch over the sheep knowing that their livelihoods were at stake if even one sheep was lost. Love came down as the angel sang the best news of all: “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” Love came down as they left all that they had every known, as they risked their lives to go and find this newborn babe.

Love came down at Christmas to everyone who was there—to the folks Mary and Joseph had passed on their long journey to Bethlehem; to the innkeeper who had turned them away, to the people who had comfortable rooms at the end of their journey. Love came down to the folks who would soon hear the good news of this beautiful baby; to the kings who would soon see the star and make their way to the newborn babe; and, yes, even to the king who would be so threatened by this little one that he would soon live in fear and rage. Love came down for all of them that night, for the faithful and the faithless, for those who lived in love and those who lived in fear, love for the saints and sinners alike.

And on this night, this dark and wintry night, love comes down for each of us. Love comes down for those of us who are joyful and those of us who are mourning. Love comes down for those of us who are scared and those of us who are hopeful. Love comes down for those of us who are surrounded by love and those of us who feel lonely. Love comes down for those of us are searching for peace and those of us who have found it. Love comes down for those of us who are wounded and scarred and for those of us who feel whole.

Love came down that Christmas night, and love comes for us again on this night. God’s great and ultimate gift of love comes down into our world, our world that too often seems too dark and scary and violent and overwhelming. In the darkness, there is such a great light, such a great gift—and that gift is given to us by God. That gift of love is a baby, our Christ. Love came down at Christmas, love all lovely, love divine. Love came down at Christmas, love for each and every one of us, the greatest love imaginable: "For a child has been born for us, a son given to us; authority rests upon his shoulders; and he is named Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace." And he is born to us, for us, for our salvation, for our life. Thanks be to God for this unimaginable, unfathomable, overwhelming, life-giving love. Amen.

Stumbling Blocks

Matthew 16:21-28

21From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised. 22And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.” 23But he turned and said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

24Then Jesus told his disciples, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. 25For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. 26For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life? 27“For the Son of Man is to come with his angels in the glory of his Father, and then he will repay everyone for what has been done. 28Truly I tell you, there are some standing here who will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom.”

It’s an interesting story, a very interesting relationship—this relationship between Jesus and Peter which winds its way through our Gospel story. At the very beginning of his ministry, Jesus was calling, calling folks away from their nets and their fish, calling them away from their families, calling them to new life. “’Follow me, and I will make you fish for people,’” Jesus said, calling them and equipping them to fish in a new way, calling and equipping them for a new life of discipleship. Andrew and Simon were the first to be called, and Simon was even given a new name, Cephas, which is Greek for “rock,” translated in our tradition as Peter. Jesus called someone to be his rock, the cornerstone upon which this foundation of ministry could stand, the cornerstone upon with this new life could be built. And those disciples did follow Jesus that day, followed Jesus as he healed the sick and spoke from the mountain, followed him as he blessed and cleansed, followed him as he brought people back to life and gave them food, followed him and learned from him.

Peter, the constant, faithful, and loving disciple of Jesus, thought he got it, thought he understood it all. In the passage preceding ours from today, when Jesus asked, “’Who do people say that the Son of Man is . . . [and] who do you think I am?” Peter excitedly and correctly replied: “’You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.’” And because of that answer, Peter got his own blessing, his own beatitude of sorts:

Blessed are you, Simon of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.

Seriously, could there have been anything better for Peter to hear from Jesus, his friend, his companion, the man he had called “the Messiah?” I mean, Peter had been so inspired by this man that day on the lake that he gave it all up, right then and right there. He left the fishing life, the only life he had ever known, he gave up his livelihood and his family and his ambition—all because this man said, “Come.” And now Jesus was acknowledging to Peter that he was indeed the rock, was indeed the man on whom this new church would soon stand. Jesus was giving Peter the keys to the kingdom, the keys to open so many doors and do so many great things. Surely, if Peter had been following Jesus so closely, he would know how to treat his sister and brother, know how to welcome, know how to give food and drink, know how to heal, know how to deeply love. The time was near—the time to open the doors of heaven—the doors of healing, of welcome, of relief, of love. He had the keys in his hands.

This was Peter’s chance for glory. He had those keys in his hands. But he dropped them. He dropped the keys to the ground when he listened as Jesus predicted his death, when realized that the stuff of Messiahship isn’t easy. You see, it was easy for Peter to proclaim the Messiah when he was following that Messiah around, walking with him, eating and healing with him, talking with him, living life with him. But Jesus then started to bring up this death and resurrection stuff, saying that he didn’t have much time left on this earth, saying that he would soon be put to death. And that’s when things started to get really hard.
Frederick Buechner tells it this way:

. . . if Peter was the only one Jesus ever gave a beatitude of his own to, he was also the only one he ever gave Hell to, at least in quite such a direct way . . . Jesus was saying that to be the Christ, the Son of the living God, wasn’t going to be a bed of roses all the way, and the time wasn’t far off when he’d suffer the tortures of the damned in Jerusalem and be killed. Peter couldn’t take it. “God forbid, Lord. This shall never happen,” he said, and that’s when Jesus lit into him. “Get behind me, Satan,” he said because the rock that Peter was at that point was blocking the grim road that Jesus knew he had to take whether he or Peter or anybody else wanted it that way or not because God wanted it that way, and that was that. “You’re not on God’s side but human’s,” he said. “You’re a rock I’ve cracked my shins on.”

I love that image--Peter has become a rock for Jesus to crack his shins on. It seems that, just as quickly as Jesus had begun to praise Peter the rock, Peter the rock on whom Christ’s church would be built, the rock in Peter’s life just as quickly turned from a cornerstone into a stumbling one, from a rock of foundation into rocks upon the path that can so easily trip folks up. “Please tell me this isn’t so, Jesus, friend, Messiah. This can’t be the way. This can’t be what I, what we have all been doing this for, what we have given everything up for.” You know, I don’t know why Peter so quickly dropped those keys, why he so quickly turned into a stumbling stone. Perhaps he was angry that he had given everything up to follow this man who was now saying he was going to leave. Perhaps he was frustrated because he, himself, wanted the glory that Jesus was sure soon to get. Perhaps he was confused, not truly understanding what Jesus was telling him, or not wanting to understand, anyway. And if he did get what Jesus was saying, perhaps he was sad and distraught at the idea of losing his friend, this Messiah. And perhaps that sadness led to the fear of losing his own life in the same way. Perhaps it was one of these things, perhaps it was all of them combined that led Peter to drop the keys of heaven that day as he stumbled along the blocks of the pathway to heaven.

And Jesus, probably irritated, frustrated, probably angry and sad himself, didn’t let Peter off the hook. “’’Get behind me, Satan!’” he yelled, “’You are a stumbling block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.’” The Greek word used for “behind” here has the same root for the word for “follow” in chapter 4, when Jesus first called Peter to follow him, so “behind” doesn’t necessarily signify a place or a location, but a posture. “Come, follow me,” Jesus said then, and “Come, get behind me and follow me,” Jesus said again. Jesus was calling Peter once again, admittedly a little bit more harshly this time, but still calling nonetheless, calling Peter to set his mind on the divine, calling Peter to stop stumbling over himself and his human ideas, calling Peter to remember the divine, to remember why they were doing all of this.

And that reminder to Peter signified that his relationship with Jesus would continue. And although that relationship continued throughout our Gospel story, it was still a rocky one, one filled with more stumbling blocks along the way. Even as they shared their last meal together before the death that Jesus had predicted, Peter promised Jesus that he would never abandon him, never desert him. But that’s exactly what he did. When push came to shove, when faced with the choice of life or death for associating with Jesus, Peter denied that he had ever met this man, his friend, his Messiah. Denied him not just once, but three times. And when he realized what he had done, he wept, wept bitterly. It’s kind of heartbreaking to know that, even at the end, Peter was still a stumbling block standing in Jesus’ way.

You know, I think it’s easy for us to read this story of Jesus and Peter today, to watch their relationship to play out, to wonder how Peter could have been so loyal and some points and disloyal at others, to wonder how he could have been so smart some days and so dense on others. I, too, have often thought to myself, “Gah, Peter! Why in the world did you do that? How could you have been so stupid?” It’s so easy for us to sit back and judge, but, really, isn’t Peter just like us? When we really stop to think about it, would we have been so different from Peter if we had been the ones called from the boat that day? Would we have followed if we were called? Would we have left our livelihoods and our families, our worlds behind, to follow Jesus? What would we have done if this man who we loved so much had told us that we were the rock upon which this church would be built? Wouldn’t we have been thrilled to receive the keys to the kingdom? Wouldn’t we have promised our faithfulness to this Messiah, but then turned on him when things got tough and scary and dangerous and even deadly?

You know, Jesus didn’t just call Peter and his brother out of the boat that day to follow him. He does exactly the same for all of us. Simply because of the fact that each of us has been created in the glorious image of God, we are called to do God’s work in the world, to be the hands and feet of Christ in the world. Because we have been created in the image of God, each of us has the potential to be called the rock, to become the cornerstone for something great and beautiful and peaceful in the world. But because we are also part of a sinful creation, there will be stumbling blocks along the way, just as there were so many for Peter. There will be stumbling blocks that trip us up and keep us from proclaiming and celebrating that Christ is the Messiah. Perhaps fear is our stumbling block—the fear of proclaiming God’s Word because we are scared about the judgment from others; the fear of giving up what we cling to and what makes our lives comfortable--our stuff and our money and our time; the fear of truly having to give up our lives to save the lives of others. Perhaps we stumble because of intimidation—intimidated that we don’t have the adequate words or experiences worthy enough of proclamation. And on the other side, perhaps experience is the stumbling block—maybe we have spent time praying or working in the world and haven’t seen anything evolve from it; maybe we have experienced something so sad or horrific in our lives that we have lost our faith. Perhaps we stumble because we think we have everything that we need, and that we don’t need anything else, especially God. And perhaps we stumble because it all just seems to be so much sometimes—because there is so much violence and fear in the world, so much poverty and injustice, so many natural disaster and human-made ones, so much hatred and sadness that we just really don’t know where to start and shut down as a result.

There are so many ways that we drop the keys to the kingdom, so many ways that we stumble and fall, so many ways we end up blocking the way of Christ, just like Peter did. But the good news is that Jesus never gives up on us. Even though Peter gave up so often on him, Jesus never gave up on Peter. As John’s gospel reminds us, Jesus appeared to Peter and the others after the resurrection—he joined them for breakfast on the beach. After such betrayal, Jesus would have and should have every right to have given up on Peter, but he didn’t. “Peter,” he said, “do you love me?” “Of course I do,” was Peter’s reply. “Then feed my lambs.” Jesus said this three times, echoing Peter’s three time denial of Jesus. Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep. And then, Jesus said this, “Follow me.” Just as the Messiah was resurrected to new life, new life was give to Peter, to each of us. That is the great news of resurrection.

"I Have Redeemed You"

But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.

Isaiah 43:1-2

Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him. John would have prevented him, saying, "I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?" But Jesus answered him, "Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness." Then he consented. And when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, "This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased."

Matthew 3:13-17

I always get so excited when our students are asked to lead a retreat for groups in our presbytery, as they were asked to last weekend. It is incredible to see the group come together, talk through the theme, think about Scripture, and walk through keynote times together. Once we have done that, though, I just kind of sit back, let go, and watch them plan individual keynotes as smaller groups. It was such a joy last weekend to hear and see and watch what they had come up with, to watch as they interacted with the junior highs, to watch them get nervous and get emotional and get excited as they led the groups.

We talked about love last weekend, it being Valentine’s Day weekend and all—we talked about love, the philos or brotherly love that Christ calls us to show for each other. The students led us through the story of the Good Samaritan, challenging us to always show our love for each other as we serve each other. We talked about the eros kind of love, the erotic love formed as flirting commences and relationships first begin, the bond of love sowed deeper as folks get to know each other, get to know each other’s hearts and souls. And we talked about agape love, the unconditional love that God shows for every one of us, the love shown in creation, the love shown in God’s community, the love shown in the grace, forgiveness, and reconciliation in Christ.

Wyatt and I worked together last weekend, and we focused on the imagery of water, water that reflects God’s unconditional love for us—the water that was first used to shelter Moses from certain death as his mom laid him in the basket to float to safety, the water that carried him to the Pharoah’s daughter, as she rescued him and loved him as her own. That water reflected the incredible, deep, and unconditional love that these two women had for this little baby. That water of unconditional love carried him to safety and new life.
As we continued to talk about the idea of unconditional love, we talked about the water imagery shown to us through the story of Jesus’ baptism. This story of Jesus’ baptism really is a great one, one of my favorites. I love that Jesus asks John to baptize him, and that even though we are told that John is the one who prepares the way for Christ, prepares all of us for Christ, John is still nervous, indignant, really. “Whoa,” he says, “Don’t I really need to be baptized by you? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Shouldn’t you be the one doing the baptizing?” But Jesus responds, “No, it has to be this way. You baptize me. This will be the first sign of the righteousness that I will be speaking about soon.” So they go down to the Jordan, and John baptizes him, cleanses him, washes him, shows Jesus that he is indeed welcomed into the kingdom. But it doesn’t stop there. As Jesus is washed with the water, the heavens open up. A voice descends like a dove (I really, really love that imagery of the voice soaring and landing like a majestic and beautiful bird). And that voice graces us with beautiful words: “You are my Son, my Beloved, and I am so very pleased with you.” I am so pleased with you.

Those are the words of unconditional love. No matter what, NO MATTER WHAT, you are my Son. My daughter. My child. And I am so very pleased with you. God claimed Jesus that day in the Jordan River, claimed him as a beloved and special Son. And God does the same for us. Baptism is a sign that we are claimed, that we are incorporated into the body of Christ, a sign that we are united with each other, that we are made one in the body of Christ. Baptism reminds us so greatly that we are loved and forgiven and graced unconditionally, that we are beloved. It reminds us that, no matter what, God is with us, walking beside us, welcoming us, loving us.

Whether we are baptized at 8 months or 8 years or 80, even, it is a reminder that God is with us and loving us, that God was with us when we were being formed in our mother’s womb, that God was with us when we came into the world. One of the greatest joys in my life was that I got to baptize my niece—my very first baptism as a minister. I already knew that I loved her unconditionally, that I would do anything for her, that I would live for her or even die for her if I had to, but wow, it really was incredible to baptize her, to say those words to her, that she is loved so greatly. That she is truly one of God’s beloved children. That she will experience such great and deep unconditional love in her life. That she is welcomed into the kingdom of God. What a special day that was!

But these waters of unconditional grace and love are not just given for us at the beginning of our lives—they are waters that wash through our lives each and every day, though every good time and bad time alike, throughout all of our years. The waters of God are there at the beginning of our lives, and they are waters that welcome us home at the end. I love the words from our Old Testament reading today:
But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. 2When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. 3For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.

These words from Isaiah have always been very special to me, but they became even more special to me in the wake of Drew Whitten’s death a few years ago. For those of you who are new to our church family, Drew was one of our students—he lived here at the church, was very active in our college group, even served on the committee that called me here. He was kind and humble and generous and faithful and funny and loving. But, unbeknownst to those who loved him so, he was also sad and depressed—so much so that he took his life. As I was sitting in my office right before our prayer service on that awful Saturday, the day after his lovely life came to such an awful end, one of the other students came in my office and said, “Rachel, can I ask you a question? I’ve always heard that someone who takes their life won’t go to heaven. Where do you think he is right now?”

My heart broke all over again, for Drew, for her, for all of us. But I reached out for my Bible and read this passage for her from Isaiah, really because it was the only way I knew how to answer her question. “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you . . . when you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you.” I said to her that I really believe that God would not go through the trouble of creating someone and loving them unconditionally—and then not redeem them. I said to her that he had obviously passed through some really dark and overwhelming rivers, but that God was with him all along the way. I said to her that I could not imagine a God who would take away unconditional love during Drew’s worst time of despair. I’m not sure that I had actually ever said those things before, but I know that I believed them.

Because, friends, I truly believe that the waters of God run deep and wide. Those waters run deep and wide for all of us. These waters of great, unconditional love are waters that carry us to safety, waters that cleanse and nurture us, waters that wash us to something new, waters that carry us from dark times to bright ones, waters that carry us to forgiveness and grace, waters that welcome into God’s family and welcome us home when the time comes. I truly believe that those waters that Moses floated through were waters of salvation, that those baptismal waters in the Jordan that day were waters of grace and welcome and love. I love how one theologian puts it:

Nothing in creation has the power to remind us so fully of the work of our Lord as the common substance of water. This our Lord gives us at baptism as a token of his saving grace, so that from the time of our initiation onward we may be reminded of all our Lord has done for us, so that we may see ourselves as a people united to Christ and to one another [through Christ.]
I love that description of baptism: these waters remind us of God’s enormous, incredible, overwhelming love for us—in good times and bad, over the highest peaks to our lowest, deepest valleys, from the beginning to the end, and everywhere in between. Thanks be to God.

Letting Our Lights Shine

13“You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot. 14“You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. 15No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. 16In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.
17“Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. 18For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. 19Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven. 20For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.

I’ve seen and heard and read the statistics a lot recently, as I’m sure have you. As a minister in a denomination considered to be “graying,” or growing older, and as a minister who works primarily with young adults, the statistics are alarming. While I’ve seen them in many places, I’ll quote them from one source, mainly because lots of different numbers and sources can become overwhelming. The Barna group works primarily with religious groups, resourcing them with research services, helping them to be more effective. In a study from 2007, the Barna group reports that a new generation of adults, ages 16-29, is “more skeptical of and resistant to Christianity that were people of the same age just a decade ago.” The skepticism has grown in this group during the last decade, along with their sense of disillusionment and disengagement with the Christian community. The study looked at 20 specific images, 10 favorable, 10 unfavorable. Among the non-Christians who responded, nine out of the top 12 perceptions were unfavorable—87% of the non-Christians said that Christianity is judgmental; 85% said Christianity is hypocritical; 78% too old-fashioned; 75% too involved in politics. And it didn’t stop with the non-Christians. Half of the Christians interviewed agreed with the same perceptions—judgmental, hypocritical, old-fashioned. They said that Christianity is “too out of touch with reality.” Half. Of the Christians. These stats are pretty alarming to me, and I hope that they are pretty alarming to all of you sitting here today. These stats struck me, but this response really broke my heart: “When young people were asked to identify their impressions of Christianity, one of the common themes was ‘Christianity in today’s society no longer looks like Jesus.’”

Christianity in today’s society no longer looks like Jesus. OUCH. Big ouch. It looks like Christians have lost some serious ground on how we reflect our Savior, on how we do what our Christ tells us to do. How do we look like Jesus? Jesus tells us himself and makes it pretty clear for us. In his sermon from the mount, he lays it out: Be with the poor, both in riches and in spirit. Comfort those who mourn—be with them just when they need their community the most. Be with those who are trying to comfort. Live humble lives. Live in vigilance, constantly seeking God’s will; seek God’s will as if you are starving and dying of thirst. Give mercy and receive it when it is offered. Be pure, in thought, in word, in deed. Make peace. Make peace in a world that so desperately needs it. Stay strong when people are coming out against you.

To look like Jesus, we are called by Jesus himself to remember that we are the salt of the earth, the light of the world. Jesus says to us, “’You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let you light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your [God] in heaven.’”

You know, every time I say the Great Prayer of Thanksgiving when we have communion, I give thanks to God that God sent Christ to earth to be a light for each of us, to illumine us as to how we are supposed to live with each other, serve each other, love each other. Jesus has come to illumine us, to be our light. And he calls us to do and be the same. Jesus calls us to listen and understand instead of being judgmental. Instead of being hypocritical, Jesus calls us to say that we love each other and then actually back it up by loving each other. He calls us to be the light of the world, to be light for others by listening to them, by sharing with them, giving to them, by living for them. Jesus Christ calls us to reflect his light in the world. It’s all that easy, right?

Right. I’m not sure how many of you watched the State of the Union address last week. I thought it was vital that our Senators and House members made an effort to reach across the aisle and sit with folks whose political parties differed from their own. It has always bothered me that they have sat so separately before, that ½ of the room would stand up and cheer for the president of their party, while the other sat on their hands. I was glad to see our congressional representatives sit together, especially in response to the horrific shooting of Representative Giffords. For some time now, a lot of the political narrative and rhetoric in our country has scared me, that our politicians and pundits on every side of the aisle have used violent images as they spoke about people with whom they disagreed; that our politicians and pundits on every side of the aisle have thrown out the term “Nazi” to describe their opposition. Every time I have heard it, I have thought to myself, “You do realize that the Nazis were responsible for the imprisonment and murder of hundreds of thousands of people, don’t you?” And while I don’t believe that our rhetoric compelled a gunman to kill those innocent people that day in Tucson, I certainly don’t think it helped. So, I was very glad to see our elected representatives come together for such an important occasion in our country. But as the address came to an end that night, I found myself wondering what would happen next. Maybe it’s the cynic in me, but I found myself thinking that it was probably pretty easy for these folks to sit next to each other for an hour—an hour in which the President did the speaking, so they really didn’t have to speak to each other, an hour that was televised for the cameras, an hour that probably went by pretty quickly for them. I found myself wondering what would happen next. Would the promise for new rhetoric, for new civility, for new life really change when the cameras go off, when the time comes to truly reach across the aisle and compromise, when the really hard work of working for our country begins? Will the light truly shine then?

I think the same thing goes for us here. It’s easy for us to come here each Sunday, to read the Gospel and hear and see that Jesus calls us to be the light of the world, to see Christ’s light lit by our sweet acolytes. It is pretty easy for us to pass the peace during the 30-second time interval allotted in our service, easy for us to sit next to each other as we are preached and sung to, easy for us to praise God when words and hymns are printed for us, when prayers are said for us. That’s the easy part. But what happens next? What happens when our worship in this place comes to an end and we have to go out and live, love, and serve in our world? What happens when this sacred time ends and the real world of work, school, sports events, homework, band concerts, social events, and so much more takes up the rest of the time in our busy lives? What happens when it’s time for Christ’s light to be carried outside of these sanctuary doors and into the real world? What happens when we are faced with trials, with difficult decisions and difficult people, when we are faced with things that make us uncomfortable or scared, things that challenge every notion and ideal we have ever had?

What happens when, after having gathered here to hear Christ’s word, it is time to leave this place and do Christ’s word, bear Christ’s light, and be Christ-like? As Christ’s people, we can leave this place and be like society expects us to be—hypocritical, uncreative, stale, judgmental. We can hide Christ’s light under a bushel basket, never allowing it to shine so others can see it. In a lot of ways, that is the easiest way to exist in our world. We live in a world where it is easier to quickly walk past a homeless person than to take the time to stop, listen to their story, go buy a meal and a blanket for them. We live in a world where it is easier to demonize someone who disagrees with us rather than sitting and listening to them and trying to understand where they are coming from. We live in a world where it is easier to hurl insults and shoot weapons from afar than to actually look at the whites of someone’s eyes to see that they are a child of God just like we are. We live in a world where it is easier to think in absolutes and blacks and whites than to realize that there is a lot of gray area, a lot of gray area that leaves us uncomfortable with doubts, questions, and uncertainties. The world believes one thing about us and expects us to do it their way, but Jesus Christ calls us to another way of life. Our Christ calls us to something bigger and greater than that. Our Christ calls us to take the time, to make the hard choices. Christ calls us to the hardest things imaginable—to give what we have to help our neighbors, to love our enemies, to be peacemakers, to perhaps even give up our own families or our lives. This isn’t easy stuff, but we are called to do it. We are called to be bearers of Christ’s light in word and deed—by sharing God’s love with others, by showing God’s love for others.

You know, I really do see glimpses of this light-bearing every day. I see it in all of you as you open the doors of this sanctuary, of this church to our students, to other folks in the community who are desperately seeking some financial help through PCM. I saw it in our students 2 weeks ago as they went to Atlanta to share with our homeless brothers and sisters—they made meals and gave out warm clothing, but most importantly, they sat and listened to the stories of their new friends whom they met that day. Those are images that our students will carry with them for the rest of their lives. That is some light-bearing.

There was picture circulating on the internet this week, and I hope some of you saw it. It was a stunning, beautiful picture taken by a newsperson in Egypt. In the midst of hundreds of thousands of protesters, in the midst of chaos, really, a small group of Egyptian Muslims realized that it was one of their times during the day for a call to prayer. When Muslims pray, they fall on their knees and bow. In this position, it would be easy for these prayers to be run over in the mass of protestors. A small group of Egyptian Christians, seeing the potential harm, gathered around the Muslims—they gathered in a circle and held hands around the Muslims so that they could pray during this dangerous time, protected them so that they could pray in safety. Instead of being judgmental of folks who practice another religion, those Christians were open and loving. Instead of being hypocritical by saying that only Christians should be allowed a time of prayer, they opened up that prayer space for their friends. That small group of Christians shared God’s word as they held hands that day, spread Christ’s love as they allowed their brothers and sisters to pray. Wow. That is some Christ-bearing, some light bearing, if I’ve ever seen it.

I do see these glimpses of light every day, but we are obviously not doing enough. There is a lot of pain, a lot of destruction, a lot of hurt in the world. We see it every time we walk down the street, every time we turn on the television, every time we pay attention to each other. That is why we need to turn our small glimpses of light into everlasting light, light that can never be hidden.