Comfort, Complacency

Luke 4:1-13

Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, 2where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished. 3The devil said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.” 4Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone.’” 5Then the devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. 6And the devil said to him, “To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. 7If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours.”8Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.’” 9Then the devil took him to Jerusalem, and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, 10for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,’ 11and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’” 12Jesus answered him, “It is said, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’” 13When the devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time.

"Comfort, Complacency"

As we enter our journey into Lent, we probably shouldn’t spend our time looking for the word “lent” in our Bible indexes, in our concordances, or even googling the term “lent in the Bible.” Although there is Biblical evidence for the length of our days in Lenten time, it is not a Biblical practice—there was no such thing as Lent way back in those days. There are certainly stories about fasting and self-denial and prayer, but there is no evidence of this Lenten journey that we’ve all begun together. So where did Lent come from, how did all of this happen?

I love how Barbara Brown Taylor paints the scene for us, saying that the need for Lent

. . . did not arise until much later, when the initial rush of Christian adrenaline was over and the believers had gotten very ho-hum about their faith. When the world did not end as Jesus had said it would, his followers stopped expecting so much from God or from themselves. They hung a wooden cross on the wall and settled back into their more or less comfortable routines. . . little by little, Christians became devoted to their comforts instead: the soft couch, the flannel sheets, the leg of lamb with roasted rosemary. These things made them feel safe and cared for—if not by God, then by themselves. They decided there was no contradiction between being comfortable and being Christian, and before long it was very hard to pick them out from the population at large. They no longer distinguished themselves by their bold love for one another. They did not get arrested for championing the poor. They blended in. They avoided extremes. They decided to be nice instead of holy and God moaned out loud.

I love her description—that the first Christians got complacent. They got comfortable with their lives, began thinking that they could do everything and anything for themselves without God’s help, stopped being bold and forgot how to proclaim the Good News, started to blend in instead of living holy lives.

And luckily, in the 2nd century, some very smart and faithful person recognized all of this—saw it and knew that something better be done to change it. They looked to their Bibles and began to realize that the number 40 kept on coming up from the Old Testament to the New, from 40 days and nights of the great flood, to the 40 years that the Israelites spend wandering in the wilderness, to the 40 days that Elijah spent journeying to Mt. Horeb, and most certainly to the 40 days that Jesus spent in the wilderness being tested by the devil before his ministry began. Christian practices began to rise in many different forms around Easter time, some folks fasting from Good Friday until Easter Sunday morning, others fasting and praying for longer.

It was suggested that there be a Lenten time, the term “Lent” springing from the Anglo-Saxon word “lencten,” meaning Spring. It was also the word for “March,” the month in which our journey to Easter usually falls. The practice of Lent seems to have become more official during the Council of Nicaea in 325, very official in 373 after a priest suggested that his congregation fast for 40 days until the more intense fasting that would take place during the Holy Week leading up to Easter. I think these folks were very smart in suggesting that this Lenten time come during Spring, perhaps even hoping that it would be a springtime for the soul for all of the folks back then, a springtime of the soul for all of us. They were smart suggesting that we spend 40 days walking with Jesus to the cross, culminating in a resurrection from death for him, a resurrection for all of us and our lives. 40 days to pray, 40 days to fast. 40 days to examine our sin and confess. 40 days to open up our lives and souls, 40 days to look at how we are living our lives. 40 days to decide how we are blending in instead of stepping out and distinguishing ourselves as the true Christians we are called to be. 40 days to realize that, even though we think we can live without a Savior, we really can’t. 40 days to remember what is to live like we are people who are graced by God and God alone.

I think, in many ways, it’s pretty easy to find ourselves in the same place today as the early Christians so long ago. In so many ways, we have become complacent. We have become so comfortable with our lives, thinking that we can do everything for ourselves, that we don’t need anyone’s help with anything, especially God’s help. We are fitting in, no longer sticking out and standing up, no longer being bold in our proclamation.

Think about it. We have so much technology and information at our fingertips. As Patrick reminded us last week, we can simply google anything we’re interested in, any question we have, any phrase we want to learn about and have information show up in a matter of seconds. Most of us can walk into a Wal-Mart and have all of our needs met, whether we need a game or dog food or a movie or camping equipment or food for dinner. We can order our dinner online from restaurants and have it delivered to our car, not ever having to talk to anyone or hardly even move to eat. We can respond to other people’s comments and feelings on social media without ever having to see those folks face to face, to see their facial expressions or their pain or hear their voice inflections, making comments anonymously and without feeling. We can go through our days without being troubled by too much, and we can go through them without ever bothering to see what is troubling someone else. We are so often too scared to reach out to or defend someone who truly is the least of these, lest we take the risk of losing our livelihoods or our images or our standing in society. Life is, simply put, comfortable for us. And that comfort leads to complacency.

I’ve been struggling with this ever since I got back from Haiti in May—with the things that I took comfort in before the trip, with the things that allowed me to be complacent, with the things that helped me rely only on myself and not on God. After spending a week in the poorest country of the Western hemisphere, a country further devastated by disaster, everything changed for me. Life changed for me. After collecting bath water from rain that rolled down from the roof in Haiti, I’ve been struggling with how comfortable I am here using gallons of water daily for bathing and brushing my teeth and washing my face. After hearing that Haiti has an 80% unemployment rate and seeing so many people lining the streets trying to sell whatever goods they could scrounge up, I’ve been struggling with our stress over an 8-10% unemployment rate here (and please don’t get me wrong—I’m not trying to belittle anyone who is stressed out from unemployment at all—just trying to deal with the discrepancy). After seeing so many people cram into a tap tap in Haiti to get where they need to be, I have struggled with how easy it is for me to drive to and from work every day by myself here. After seeing so many people desperate for any kind of medical care—and so many folks who will never get it in Haiti—I have struggled with our heated debates about health care here, debates that have led to so much hatefulness. I have struggled with the fact that I get frustrated if I have to wait too long for the care I need here while so many in Haiti are thankful for any kind of health care they can scrounge up, not to mention those who will never get the care they need. No matter how we feel about health care, I have struggled mightily with our harsh words to each other over how we take care of eath other. After seeing a country that is so desperate for any kind of stable political infrastructure, I have struggled so much with our recent election. I hated it. I have struggled with our mean words to each other, struggled with the fact that each major candidate spent over a billion dollars to tear the other one down, struggled with the fact that I have been a very complacent participant in our system without ever really fighting for the changes I think we need.

Until I went to Haiti, I didn’t really realize how comfortable I was, how complacent I was, to just be in the world, to just be without ever really challenging the status quo, without doing as much as I could to help those in need. I didn’t really realize how comfortable I was proclaiming that I was a follower of Christ, a follower who wasn’t really willing to risk my place in the world or my livelihood or my life to truly follow him and do as Christ commands—to love my neighbor just as I have been so greatly loved. I didn’t realize how easy it was for me to settle by being nice instead of being holy. I didn’t realize the contradiction of being comfortable and being a Christian.

That is why I need these 40 days of Lent, this springtime for my soul, this resurrection for my soul, really, this time to fast and pray and reflect—to reflect about my place in the world, my complacency in it, and what I can do to challenge and change it. I’m sure many of you are in the same place. We all need this time to get ready—to get out hearts and minds together, to think about how our sin and spend time in confession, to realize, remember, and celebrate that Jesus truly is Lord, the Lord of our minds, hearts, lives.

I think about our Gospel story today, about how Jesus spent those terrible, gutwrenching, awful 4o days in the wilderness, spent them being tested and tempted to the very core of his being. He needed that time in the wilderness to get ready for his life of ministry, to be prepared for all that he would face along the way, to be set apart and to get ready for the cross that was awaiting him at the end of his journey. Jesus entered the wilderness for those 40 days and nights, and he was tempted by the devil to succumb to him, to succumb to power and privilege, to succumb to comfort, to succumb a god other than his own. Jesus needed that time to think about who he was, whose he was.

And so do we. We need these 40 days and 40 nights, this time to be a springtime and resurrection for our soul. We are entering into wilderness, a wilderness that is tough and long and fraught with temptations of power and privilege of comfort and complacency. We are entering the wilderness, but the good news is that we are not alone. We are still able to feel the mark of the cross on our foreheads from Ash Wednesday, and we are invited to the table today. This table is set for us, set to shake us out of our comfort, out of our complacency, set to remind us that we are given all we need right here. At this table, we are given the life of our Lord who lived and journeyed to the cross and died for every single one of us. Thanks be to God.

Harvest Labor

Luke 10:1-9

1 After this the Lord appointed seventy others and sent them on ahead of him in pairs to every town and place where he himself intended to go. 2 He said to them, "The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest. 3 Go on your way. See, I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves. 4 Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals; and greet no one on the road. 5 Whatever house you enter, first say, "Peace to this house!' 6 And if anyone is there who shares in peace, your peace will rest on that person; but if not, it will return to you. 7 Remain in the same house, eating and drinking whatever they provide, for the laborer deserves to be paid. Do not move about from house to house. 8 Whenever you enter a town and its people welcome you, eat what is set before you; 9 cure the sick who are there, and say to them, "The kingdom of God has come near to you.'

Recently, I’ve been fascinated, and frankly, frightened by a survey released by the Pew Research Center’s Forum on Religion and Public Life on the religious practices of Americans--in particular young adults under the age of 30. The results should be kind of scary to you, to me, to all of us who care about the young adults in our midst and the future of the church that we love so dearly. The results suggest that nearly 1/5, 20% of Americans, say that they are religiously unaffiliated, that they consider themselves to be “spiritual” and not “religious,” that they don’t go any church of any kind. These numbers are pretty alarming for this minister, and they get even scarier when they simply focus on young adults under 30. The number changes from 1/5 to 1/3, from 20 to 33%. Listen to some further results:

Two-thirds of them say they believe in God (68%). More than half say they often feel a deep connection with nature and the earth (58%), while more than a third classify themselves as “spiritual” but not “religious” (37%), and one-in-five (21%) say they pray every day. In addition, most religiously unaffiliated Americans think that churches and other religious institutions benefit society by strengthening community bonds and aiding the poor. With few exceptions, though, the unaffiliated say they are not looking for a religion that would be right for them. Overwhelmingly, they think that religious organizations are too concerned with money and power, too focused on rules and too involved in politics.

As a result of this survey, National Public Radio has spent some time interviewing young adults, asking them what is happening in their religious lives, their spiritual lives, asking about their faith histories and religious practices. These young adults tell fascinating stories. Kyle, 27, talks about the cross he had tattooed on his wrist as a teenager—a reminder of his faith during those times when he felt weak or unsure or had questions. But Kyle has since fallen away from his faith, not really able to explain why. When the interviewer asks Kyle if he believes in God, he says, “I don’t, really, but I really want to.” This response broke my heart. A Muslim young adult explains how he has fallen away from his faith because he can’t believe in a God who would ask Abraham to sacrifice his son; a young Christian woman explains how she was brought up in a Christian school but left the church when the school taught her to believe that homosexuality was a sin. She believes that each person is a uniquely created child of God and simply can’t reconcile the two ideas. A Jewish man explains how he spent every day of his life at the synagogue, but whose life was turned upside down by abuse and suicide in his home. Such different experiences, such different reasons, but the result is the same—the church is missing out on a vital group of folks just like these bright, smart, and searching young adults, and this vital group of folks is missing out on the church. The harvest is indeed bountiful, but the laborers are few.

The authors of the survey shared some other ideas about why so many young adults, or “nones” as they called them, aren’t part of any church or faith tradition right now. They suggest that the church should speak out on social issues, but maybe, just maybe, they are speaking out on the wrongs ones. They suggest that religious organizations have become too involved in politics, power, and money. They suggest that the church has gone from caring for the well-being of those around us, those outside these walls, to caring only for the spiritual well-being of those who only show up in the pews on Sunday, those who look the same and walk the same and talk the same. Maybe the church has chosen the wrong priorities in its message, causing it to become morally bankrupt. Maybe the church has gotten scared and gotten so caught up in itself and the arguments in its midst that it has chased many of its laborers away. And I truly believe that our own denomination has been very guilty of this in the past 2 decades. The survey authors suggest that our young adults want to work, that they are looking for a bountiful harvest—and that perhaps the church needs to find what has been lost and explore what can be found and reclaim its central message: that we love as Christ first loved us, that we love our neighbor as we love ourselves, that we proclaim that great message of Christ’s love to everyone we meet. The harvest is bountiful, but the laborers few.

This very same problem is echoed in our Gospel story today—a bountiful harvest with few laborers to go out and do the work. Christ calls the disciples who are gathered there, calls so many more to go out. Christ anoints 70 of them (a number that suggests many, many more), and tells them to go out to every place and town, to meet people and eat with them, to accept their hospitality and meet with them, to heal them and love them and announce his kingdom. He tells them that the harvest is plentiful, that there is so much to do. He reminds them that it won’t be easy, that there is a lot of pain in the world and a great need for healing love, reminds them that they will encounter lots of grief and hardness along the way. But, even though it will be hard, they have to go. Christ anoints them, after all, to go out and spread his message of love, of acceptance, of welcome, of grace.

You know, I think that I could preach about 10 different sermons on this text, but there are several important themes in this story for us to think about today as we study this text. Christ anoints the disciples and the others to go out and set the way for him—he doesn’t simply say “go,” but anoints them, sets them apart, ordains them for their service, makes them ready. And he doesn’t send them out on their own. I love that the text specifically tells us that Christ sends them out in pairs. None of them has to go this alone, instead, they go together to support each other, to hold each other up, to lift each other up when one of the pair is having a rough time, when the other doesn’t think he or she can do it anymore. And they’re going to need each other, as the story reminds us, because this business of setting the way for Christ is not easy. “Go on your way,” Jesus says, “see, I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves.” Jesus knows that they will meet resistance, perhaps even violence, along the way. Even though the disciples can’t quite believe it when they are told, Jesus knows how his life is going to end and that it’s not going to be pretty. He knows that this proclamation is hard, that there will be lots of resistance and lots of negativity, and he does his best to warn them. Even though he will have to die alone for his message, Jesus puts the disciples and the others together, gives them support, sends them out together.

I think this story also tells us about who we are and what we are to be as people of mission, about how to do mission. When they arrive in the towns together, Jesus tells them to sit with people, to accept the hospitality that is offered, however it is offered. He asks them to abide with folks, really, which is so much different than simply telling them about Christ and then heading toward the nearest door to get to the next person. Sit with them, listen to the stories of their lives, eat what they offer, spend time with them, get to know them, be with them, abide with them. Jesus then tells them to cure, to heal, to try and fix whatever has been damaged and broken in their lives. And then, and only then, tell them about the kingdom, setting the way for Christ. As a seminary professor of mine once said in a class set at a homeless community, “It is hard to hear the Gospel of Christ on an empty stomach.” Perhaps Jesus is telling them that the most important thing about mission, about preparing the way of Christ, is not the always the quantity of people who hear the message, but the quality about how the message is proclaimed.

Jesus pretty much lays it out for them, and none of it sounds particularly easy. It would be so easy and natural, almost, for the disciples and the rest of the seventy to shut down, to be scared, to refuse to go and do mission. This is really hard stuff. But they don’t—they have been told that the harvest is plentiful, that there is much work to do out in the world. Jesus sends them out into a broken and fearful world to labor—to live and to love, to eat and to heal, to listen and to share.

And Jesus does the same for us, folks, especially today. We have all been through a lot in the last few months in the life of our church. I know that you are hurting, and I know that I’m hurting, as well. It was gutwrenching to see your tears last week as you left worship, and it was gutwrenching for me to stand before you and hold back my tears when we sang “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling.” There has been so much change, so much transition in the life of our congregation—and there will continue to be as we search for an Interim Head of Staff, as we eventually search for the next person God is calling to be with us. Transition is so hard in so many ways, and in some ways, it can hold us back, can cripple us from going out in the world to work. In so many ways, it is hard to share the message of Christ when we are hurting, so hard to go out into homes when we are nervous about what will happen next in the life of our church community.

The news for us to hear today is both great and hard as we are reminded that the harvest is indeed plentiful—and always will be. There is so much struggling in the world, so much sin, so much brokenness. As we all know so well, our world struggles with violence, with war, with broken community, with so many “isms.” We have so many ways to hurt each other and break each other, and we live in a world that is broken and fearful because of all the ways we sin. We live in a world where people are hurting and lonely and distant and hopeless. Those young adults who shared their stories in the NPR interview echoed that as they spoke about the alienation and isolation, the violence and tragedy, the apathy and doubt that has kept them away from the church. The harvest is plentiful, and our Christ needs more laborers.

It is true, we have free will, and we can choose to shut down, to ignore the world around us, to live in sadness and fear, to ignore the harvest all around us. But isn’t it better to live as those who go out in pairs, those who are anointed and set free and made ready for service? As a congregation, we have been through so much in the last few months, but the world goes on around us. There is much work to be done and many laborers needed in this broken world. I really don’t think it’s a coincidence that today is Souper Bowl Sunday—because, no matter what we are going through, we are reminded today that there are so many hungry people in our midst, right outside these doors. It’s no accident that our PCM luncheon is coming up soon to remind us that folks need help paying the most basic of bills, that work on our Habitat house is just beginning to remind us of our basic need for shelter. Life goes on. It must. Folks, if we are nothing else, we are laborers. No matter what, there is always work to be done. The harvest is always plentiful. Thanks be to God.

The Season Among Seasons

The Season Among Seasons

Luke 21:25-26

25 ‘There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. ²⁶People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. ²⁷Then they will see “the Son of Man coming in a cloud” with power and great glory. ²⁸Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near. 29 Then he told them a parable: ‘Look at the fig tree and all the trees;³⁰as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. ³¹So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. ³²Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place.³³Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.

34 ‘Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day does not catch you unexpectedly, ³⁵like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. ³⁶Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.’

It is so hard to believe it’s been 5 years this week. I remember everything from that December 7th Friday night—I wasn’t feeling very well, so I got home from our annual Montreat meeting and Dead Day brunch, pulled my hair into a ponytail and put on some big, comfy sweats and slippers. I turned off my lights and turned on the ones from my Christmas tree, sat down on my red couch with some chicken soup, covered up in a warm blanket, and turned on my favorite show, “Friday Night Lights.” About halfway through the show, my cell phone rang. I’m not sure that I would’ve answered it for just anyone, but my screen read that my friend Ruth was calling, so I said, “Hey, lady! What’s up?” But it wasn’t her. It was a male voice, the minister of First Church in Athens, a voice calling with the worst news imaginable, saying something that I never wanted to hear, something that pray I never hear again. “Ruth wanted me to call you and tell you that Drew committed suicide tonight.” I heard the words, but didn’t quite understand them. What? What? It had to be a dream, right?

My friend Drew, our friend Drew, one of our former students, a sweet, kind, shy, generous young man, a new husband to Ruth for only 3 weeks, my Auburn fan partner in crime, someone who loved this church so much, one of the students on the search committee that called me to this church, a child of God with so much potential to do good in this crazy world, had taken his life. I heard the words that he was gone, called Frank to tell him and drove to Lisa’s house to tell her, and the three of us drove to the church--still in utter disbelief--to tell our students. I heard the words, said them even, but they were so unbelievable and unfathomable that I couldn’t wrap my head around them. I so wanted it to be a dream, to wake up a few days later and discover that none of it had happened. But it wasn’t. Somehow, I made it through—we all made it through—the next few days. When I read Scripture at his funeral, the same passage I had read just three weeks earlier at Ruth and Drew’s wedding, I had to hold on to the sides of the pulpit, praying that my knees wouldn’t buckle under me as I saw the casket  in front of me. Drew’s death sent ripples through the lives of the ones who loved him so, still love him so. You know, I don’t really remember much from that Advent and Christmas season because I tried to block it out just so I could breathe, but I do know that this season has been tough ever since.

Maybe it’s the geeky preacher’s kid in me, but I have always loved the Advent and Christmas season. Ever since I was a little girl, it has been a season of wonder as I watched Christmas lights, a season of joy as I played with the manger scene my grandmother made, the one that she gave to me when I was ordained. It has always been a season of happiness as I bought and made gifts for friends, a season of joy as I sang carols and listened to Scripture. But since that night 5 years ago, I have struggled with the season. It has since been a season of wondering what could have been, what should have been—a season of struggle, of melancholy, of sadness.

All of us in this room are in different seasons of life as we gather today. For some of us, this is indeed a season of sadness, of mourning. There has been a lot of loss among so many of us in this room over the past year. I look into your faces and know that many of you are mourning the loss of the father or mother who gave you life; mourning the loss of a grandparent who kissed you until you smothered; mourning the loss of a partner who stood by your side in the best and toughest of times; mourning the loss of a friend gone too early.

For many of us, this is a season of joy—the joy of waiting for loved ones to come or planning a trip to go and be with them; the joy of watching the children in your lives as they light up when they see Christmas lights or sit in Santa’s lap or sings precious songs; the joy of cooking and baking to fill up our loved ones; the joy of giving something wonderful to those we love the most in this world.

This is a season of loneliness for many of us in this room, whether it is the loneliness of spending that first holiday missing a loved one; the loneliness of having a family far away; the loneliness of receiving an invitation to a party that includes a guest, but knowing that you don’t have a guest to bring; the loneliness of never receiving an invitation at all.

We are in a season of busyness—the busyness of finishing up tests and papers and finals; the busyness of reading them and turning grades in. This season of busyness comes in the form of rushing around and buying and baking and cleaning and decorating; in the form of Christmas programs and caroling and packing and wrapping.

And for all of us, for our church family, this is certainly a season of worry, of anxiety, of the uncertainty that comes with transition. As Frank and Carole retire from their calling of ministry to their calling as wonderful, doting, and loving grandparents, we wait, we wonder, we worry. We are in a season of anxiety—anxious to know what is coming next, anxious about the work we will have to do together, anxious and excited to see how the Spirit will work within us, anxious and excited to know who God is calling us to be, who God is calling to be with us next. 

We have all come into this room, this sanctuary today, finding ourselves in the midst of one of these seasons, if not several or even all of them, if not more. But things are different, things new today as we gather. There are beautiful wreaths on the doors and a Chrismon tree with gorgeous ornaments and colors and lights. The windows are adorned with greenery and hurricane lights and pictures that tell the story. The paraments are bright with the color purple, the poinsettias a bright red, and we have a new wreath full of candles to light our way. And the table has been set for each of us at the foot of the cross.

The season of Advent is here, friends. It is the season among all of the other seasons, the season that bursts into the seasons of our lives whether we are ready for it or not, whether we have been yearning desperately for it to get here. The Advent season bursts into our seasons of busyness and loneliness, our seasons of hope and anxiety, our seasons of joy and sadness. This Advent season bursts into the other seasons of our lives and says to us, “’Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly…’”

The Advent season bursts into the other seasons of our lives that are weighing us down. It bursts in to bring us great news, news of hope, news of light. It bursts into the others seasons of our lives to share the greatest news that a little child is being born again into our midst. The Advent season bursts in as we sing a prayer: “Come, Thou long expected Jesus, born to set Thy people free; from our fears and sins release us, let us find out rest in Thee. Israel’s strength and consolation, hope of all the earth Thou art. Dear desire of every nation, joy of every longing heart.”

I love that we have begun this day by just lighting one candle, that we will light a new one each time we gather during this Advent season. The light will build and grow each week as we celebrate the coming of  a little babe, our Christ, our Redeemer--the coming of light, hope, joy, and peace into our world. The light that Christ brings is so much better, so much brighter than the brightest Christmas lights we could ever see. The light of this season of Christ will continue to grow as we wait, as we yearn, as we wonder.

The light helps us know the story. It reflects what this season is all about, this Advent season that bursts into our midst, into our seasons of happiness and busyness, or anxiety and wonder, of joy and sorrow, to help us know and help us share the best news of all—that Jesus is breaking in, that he is shining his light so brightly for all of us, that he is being born into our world once again to be with us, to teach us, to heal us, to save us. Thanks be to God.

"Blind"

They came to Jericho. As he and his disciples and a large crowd were leaving Jericho, Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar, was sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout out and say, ‘Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, ‘Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Jesus stood still and said, ‘Call him here.’ And they called the blind man, saying to him, ‘Take heart; get up, he is calling you.’ So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. Then Jesus said to him, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ The blind man said to him, ‘My teacher, let me see again.’Jesus said to him, ‘Go; your faith has made you well.’ Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way. 

Mark 10:46-52

"Blind"

This story of Bartimaeus, so often called Blind Bartimaeus by scholars and readers alike, is a story about many things—about a man who is desperately sick and sad and poor and left out and lonely, a story about a Savior who hears him and heals him. It is a story about being blind—both physically blind like Bartimaeus, a story about being figuratively blind, like so many of the rest of us. This story about Blind Bartimaeus is story of hope, a story of humility, a story of challenge for all of us who read and hear it. It is ultimately a story of restoration, restoration from a Savior who is walking his way towards his death on the cross.

Jesus and the disciples are leaving Jericho, winding their way towards the Palm Sunday processional waiting for them, when they pass by a man on the street. We aren’t told much about Bartimaeus, just that he is a blind beggar, but that description tells us enough. It is pretty safe for us to assume that he is lonely and outcast and poor, judged harshly because of his blindness. During this day and time, it is assumed that any physical ailment is a punishment for sin, and so Bartimaeus is not just seen, but judged as a sinner, someone unworthy of time, help, or love. Bartimaeus is sitting by the side of the road, more than likely by himself. He can’t see what is coming his way, but he senses that something great, something very important, is about to happen. Jesus is on his way—by this time, stories about Jesus and his healing have spread, and when Bartimaeus hears that it is indeed Jesus who is coming his way, he rightly senses that this is his chance for healing, for restoration. “Jesus, Son of David,” he says, “have mercy on me!” “Shut it, Bartimaeus,” you can hear the others who have gathered around them whispering. But he ignores them, knowing this is his chance, pleading again, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Jesus is running short on time and has every right to keep on walking through Jericho, but he doesn’t. He hears those words—“have mercy on me”—and stops, stops himself, stops everyone around him, and calls Bartimaeus to come to him.

Without skipping a beat, Bartimaeus throws off his cloak and makes his way to Jesus. “What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus asks, as rhetorical question as has ever been asked. Jesus knows that Bartimaeus needs healing, needs love, needs restoration, but Jesus wants to hear it straight from him, wants to hear his faith, wants to hear his trust, his hope. “My teacher, let me see again,” the answer comes. “Let me see.”

“What do you want me to do for you?” I think this part of the story is fascinating, especially when compared to our Gospel story from last week. Last week, we heard from James and John, heard from them immediately after Jesus had predicted his death and resurrection for a third time. But instead of being true disciples and being concerned about walking with Jesus through this last part of his life, James and John are thinking only about themselves. With more boldness and stupidity than we could ever imagine, John and James say to Jesus, “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you. Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.” Instead of looking out for their friend, their Christ, their Savior, James and John are looking out for themselves, their legacy, their glory. Jesus rightly puts them in their place—“whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all.” These words echo Jesus’ words from chapter 9: “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and 

servant of all.”

The stories are so different here, the questions so different. John and James ask, demand really, for Jesus to do something for them—not something for their healing, but something instead for their glory. We want you to do for us whatever we ask of you. Their faith is shallow and childish and incomplete. They are figuratively blind—blinded by their ambition and need and desire. They demand to be first, not caring or thinking a bit about the last, the ones who need help the most. Which brings us to Bartimaeus. He is certainly the last, certainly the least, certainly the lost. Physically blind, not by choice or sin or circumstance, Bartimaeus comes to Jesus as well, but reaches out to him in deep faith and desperate hope. His faith is hopeful and deep and impeccable. Jesus knows that he is desperate for healing, desperate for restoration, desperate not to be last and least anymore. The demand of “Jesus, do this for us” turns into the question of “What can I do for you?” The reply is simple: “My teacher, let me see again.” And the teacher lets him see, heals blind Bartimaeus right there on the spot, brings him to new sight and new life.

You know, I think that is pretty tempting for us to stop here at this good news, this news of restoration, of sight for the blind. Jesus has healed this man, made him whole, brought him from being a nobody to being someone, called him from a life of lying prostrate on the street to standing on his own two feet, brought him from a life of desperation to a life of fullness. Jesus has done so, so much for Bartimaeus, and it truly is wonderful news. And he does the same for each of us. It’s so very tempting for this preacher to stop here at this wonderful, happy, fulfilling news and let us all go home with warm fuzzies in our hearts.

But there is more to the story. I have read this story so many times, heard many sermons on it—but something new jumped out to me this time. Bartimaeus does indeed regain his sight, but something more happens at the very end, something heard in the very last few words. Bartimaeus follows Jesus on the way. He follows him on the way. On the way to Jerusalem for the triumphal entry, on the way to Golgotha for the horrific ending.

Think about James and John one more time. Think about Bartimaeus one more time—the difference between them and their stories. John and James have followed Jesus from the very beginning of his ministry. Although it must have been hard for them to leave their families and livelihoods behind to follow Jesus in such an uncertain way and time, these disciples didn’t really know what they were walking in to. They hadn’t yet seen the full picture of what was going to happen; they walked into this new and fascinating and different life hopeful for something great, hopeful for an adventure, hopeful for a new way of life. And now, at the end, even though they have heard the predictions, they are still hopeful, not really understanding what these predictions mean, hoping that everything they have left behind and done in Jesus’ name means glory for them.

But Bartimaeus is different. After he is healed, after the blindness falls from his eyes, even though he has also heard the predictions about what will happen to the teacher, he still decides to follow. He could very easily and simply say, “Hey, thanks teacher. I am truly thankful for everything you have done. Now I’m gonna go home and hang out.” But he doesn’t. He has a choice of whether to simply be thankful or to be thankful and live thankfully. And he chooses the latter. He becomes one of them—a disciple, a follower. So many of them have followed Jesus from the very beginning, not truly understanding how hard it will be along the way, all the way to the end. But Bartimaeus chooses to follow Jesus almost at the very end of his life, a very bold and courageous and faithful move. He has heard the predictions. He has to know that following will not be easy, that it will be fraught with danger and peril and really hard stuff along the way. He has to know, especially now that he is no longer blind, that the stuff he will see along the way to the cross will be awful and ugly and quite gruesome. But Bartimaeus follows anyway—he has been faithful from the beginning and will be faithful until the end, all the way to the new beginning of resurrection. The lost one has been found. The one with the least has been given the most. The one who was blind now sees—sees more clearly than almost anyone else following Christ.

And that is our choice, as well. In so many different ways, Jesus takes away the things that blind us, blind us from how he tells us to live, who he calls us to be. If we truly open ourselves up to listen to what Jesus says to each of us, our lives are bound to change. We are bound to be challenged about how we are living, about the stuff we have, about how we spend our time each and every day, about how we treat each person we meet, about how we forgive and love in a world that tells us to only look our for ourselves and our glory. This is the challenge that James and John had, the challenge that even blind Bartimaeus had, the challenge that we all have.  As hard as it can be, Jesus changes things for us—he pulls the blinders away from each of us and says, “OK. Now you have to see the world how it is. You can go back to your old way of life and ignore all of the pain and the hurt, all of the ways you can help, all of the opportunity around you to live and love. You can shut down if you wish. Or you can follow. It’s true that the following won’t always be easy or pretty or fun, but it is life giving, life altering, life sustaining.”

I love how Barbara Brown Taylor, a professor at Columbia Theological Seminary, puts it:

How will you have it? You can stay where you are. You can sit in your familiar dark, where all of the edges are rounded off so that you will not hurt yourself, where you need only concern yourself with what is within your reach...No sense getting your hopes up; no sense thinking of yourself as a person who might see. Stay with what you know. Or you can cry out, spring up, and ask for your heart’s desire. Damn the torpedoes and good riddance to caution, to propriety, to the fear that keeps you in the dark. Take heart! Get up, he is calling you! Are you willing to see or not? And if you are willing, are you willing to see everything there is, the good along with the awful, the lovely along with the monstrous—in yourself, in everyone you meet, in the world? Are you willing to bruise your shins…to bruise your heart? Then go your way, because your faith has made you well.

I love that! Go, Jesus says. Go on your way, because your faith has made you well. Whether we have been following from the very beginning or are just discovering and following now at the very end, we are called to go as faithful people—to see and follow and go along the way to Jerusalem, to the cross, to the resurrection and restoration that awaits each one of us. Go. Amen.

A Prayer for Children

Mark 9:30-37

They went on from there and passed through Galilee. He did not want anyone to know it; for he was teaching his disciples, saying to them, “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.” But they did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him. Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he asked them, “What were you arguing about on the way?” But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest.He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them,“Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

You know, it really all seems so petty, these inane arguments that the disciples always seem to have among themselves. They have been following Jesus for quite a bit now, listening to him, watching him, asking him, simply being with him. After all of this time, how do they seriously not get it, seriously not understand? He has been telling them about the kingdom, about what is waiting out there for them, but they just completely ignore it time and time again. You would think they would be talking about Jesus’ message of salvation, of love, of grace for all, but instead they are in la-la land, arguing about who among them is Jesus’ favorite, the greatest, the best. After all of this time, they are still completely oblivious to what Jesus has been doing in their lives. Instead of doing kingdom work, they are doing the work of the world—wondering who is the greatest

We wonder why they don’t get it. We ask why. But when it really comes down to it, don’t we do the exact same thing? Don’t we find ourselves arguing in petty, endless, inane ways? Don’t we belittle and compare and miss the point, just like the disciples did? We argue among ourselves about who is the greatest, who is the best. We argue and bicker, especially in this seemingly endless political season, about who is best equipped to lead, best able to cure our ills. We argue among ourselves about who has the best education, the longest experience, the most friends, who amassed the most stuff, who has made the most money. In so many ways, these are our measures of greatness. Who is the greatest, we also ask? We do the same thing.

We are just alike, the disciples from so long ago, and all of us today. We strive for the greatness of the world, and in doing so, fail to recognize and celebrate the message of Christ’s kingdom. We fight for the things that are finite, the things we can never take with us. We argue about the silliest things, completely ignoring what Jesus tells us to do and who Jesus calls us to be. And we do all of this somehow thinking that Jesus will never know what we are whispering to each other behind his back, trying to figure out who is the greatest among us. But he does know. He always does. And he is always ready to ask, “What were you arguing about along the way?”

Jesus is always ready to teach us once again, to turn things upside down, in his own topsy-turvy way; always ready to turn our long lasting arguments and long held notions on their head. You might waste your time whispering and arguing about who is the greatest, but my kingdom is about something else, Jesus says. You ask about who is the greatest, but in my kingdom, “Whoever wants to be first must be last and servant of all.” And then he takes a sweet child in his arms and continues: “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.” 

You see, in this biblical world, in this time, children are certainly the least of these; they are property, the lowest of the low, persons who really aren’t yet persons, those who are left out of the margins , those who are really never taken into consideration, possessions, really. These babies are really what the kingdom is about, Jesus says.

You are arguing about who among you is the greatest, but instead I give you the least of these, the least of these who are really set to inherit the kingdom. These children, the ones whom you would never really take into consideration for your arguments about who is the greatest, these are the ones to whom the kingdom belongs. These are the ones that I have lived for, the ones for whom I will die, Jesus tells them. 

I love that Jesus speaks of children when talking about the kingdom, and I see his point in a couple of different ways here. When I think about the child in this passage, I think about the sweet, funny, smart, innocent kids I was able to spend last weekend with. I think about my niece and her friend who came to my house for her 11th birthday spend the night party—how we did Auburn up in a few short hours, eating ice cream at Toomer’s, cheering with the band at the pep rally, buying out Claire’s jewelry store at the mall the way in the way that any 11 year old girl should, pigging out on way too much cheese dip at dinner, getting our hands dirty and sticky making a birthday cake, spending way too much money on barely drunk drinks and melty ice cream at the football game—giggling and smiling all along the way. I think about all of the kids who squealed at Toomer’s Corner after the game. As the adults fretted and worried about our football team who had barely won, the kids didn’t have a care in the world. All that worried them was grabbing the nearest roll of toilet paper, how high up they could get it in the trees. I think about last Sunday and the beautiful three year olds here, about Branson and Ella and Sarah Caroline and Noah and Madelyn, about how they stood up so proudly to get their Bibles, about how that was the most important thing in the world to them, about how one of them squealed, “I want my Bible!” 

In a lot of ways, I think this is what the kingdom of God is all about. I think we are called to come to Christ with open arms, with child-like wonder and awe, as children who giggle loudly instead of being weighed down by the adult pressures and expectations of the world, as children who never want to miss a thing in this world, as children who don’t yet know prejudice and certainly don’t let it get in their way, as children who would rather get a Bible over anything else in the world. You know, I think it probably made Jesus pretty happy to hear someone yell, “I want my Bible!” I think we are called to be the faithful ones who don’t let the expectations of the world, the needs and desires of the world, the petty arguments about who is the greatest, get in our way of serving our Lord.

But I also think this passage tells us something about how Jesus reaches out to the least of these in the world, about how he stands in solidarity with the children of the world who are never given a second thought, the ones who struggle to know where their next meal is coming from, the ones who are abandoned and sad and lonely and know way too much about the brokenness of the world at way too early an age. I think about the children in Atlanta whom we met on our mission trips there—the ones who were standing in lines for food at homeless shelters, whose clothes were torn and ripped, the ones who already had dark circles under their eyes from malnutrition, lack of sleep, sadness. I think about the kids in our own community who are hidden from the happiness of pep rallies and tree rolling because their parents are working a 3rd job just to make ends meet and have no time for frivolous celebration. I think about some of the beautiful children we met in Haiti this past May—about Carline, a young woman who was hit by a car that damaged her physically and mentally, about how she was left on the streets of Port-au-Prince to die, probably sexually assaulted and used before she was finally discovered and taken to Wings of Hope for some healing. I think about Franc, whose body is so riddled with disease that he spends most of his days lying on his stomach on the porch of Wings, waiting for some to feed him and talk to him and play ball with him. I think about the sweet baby I held for three solid hours at the babies’ hospital, about how she laid on my chest trying to sleep, about how I could feel the congestion in her chest against mine every time she tried to take a breath, about how I tried to put her down only to hear her cry simply because she wanted to be held, about how she might not be able to get the medicine she needs although she could get it at the drop of a hat here in the states. These are the ones with whom Jesus walks in solidarity and grace and love; the ones whom Jesus welcomes, and calls us to do the same. These are the ones to whom the kingdom of God belongs.

Whoever welcomes these children, Jesus says, welcomes God into their midst. The kingdom is not about our inane arguments and the petty things that we so often let get in our way. It is about those whom we welcome and love in God’s name. The kingdom isn’t about how much stuff we can get, how much money we make, and it certainly isn’t about how great we think we are. It is not about the first and the greatest, but the least and last. The kingdom isn’t about how great we think we are, but it is instead about how much of a servant we are. The kingdom is about how we reach out to God with the wonder of a child, about how we squeal with delight, about how we live this life God has given us to its fullest. The kingdom of God is about a Lord who stands with the least of these on the margins, about how a Lord who walks and welcomes the most vulnerable, about a Lord who welcomes and loves and turns our expectations and beliefs and long-held notions upside down. “Whoever wants to be first must be last and servant of all . . .Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.” Thanks be to God.

Our prayer today is a lovely poem written by Ina Hughes in her book “A Prayer for Children.” It is so important for us to hear, especially as we hear about the children who are welcomed in Christ’s name. Listen again for a word from God:

We pray for children 

Who put chocolate fingers everywhere, 

Who like to be tickled, 

Who stomp in puddles and ruin their new pants, 

Who sneak Popsicles before supper, 

Who erase holes in math workbooks, 

Who can never find their shoes. 

And we pray for those 

Who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire, 

Who can't bound down the street in new sneakers, 

Who never "played tag,," 

Who are born in places we wouldn't be caught dead  in, 

Who never go to the circus, 

Who live in an X-rated world. 

We pray for children 

Who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions, 

Who sleep with the cat and bury goldfish, 

Who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money, 

Who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink, 

Who slurp their soup. 

And we pray for those 

Who never get dessert, 

Who have no safe blanket to drag behind them, 

Who can't find any bread to steal, 

Who don't have any rooms to clean up, 

Whose pictures aren't on anybody's dresser, 

Whose monsters are real. 

We pray for children 

Who spend all their allowance before Tuesday, 

Who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food, 

Who like ghost stories, 

Who shove dirty clothes under the bed, 

Who get visits from the tooth fairy, 

Who don't like to be kissed in front of the car pool, 

Who squirm in church and scream on the phone, 

Whose tears we sometimes laugh at and whose smiles can make us cry. 

And we pray for those 

Whose nightmares come in the daytime, 

Who will eat anything, 

Who have never seen a dentist, 

Who are never spoiled by anyone, 

Who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep, 

Who live and move, but have no being. 

We pray for children 

Who want to be carried 

And for those who must, 

For those we never give up on 

And for those who never get a second chance, 

For those we smother. 

And for those who will grab the hand of anybody kind 

enough to offer it. 

We pray for children. Amen.