Hearing Test

According to the Gospel of Luke, Jesus’ public ministry begins like this.

He goes to the Jordan River to be baptized by John, just like everyone else. When he comes out of the river, the Holy Spirit appears as a dove and, Luke says, “descended upon him in bodily form.” Then, Luke says, “Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness” to be tested. After the forty days in the wilderness, Jesus, “filled with the power of the Spirit,” returns to Galilee and begins teaching and preaching with, according to Luke, a lot of success.

One day, he reads scripture in his hometown synagogue. He’s handed the scroll of Isaiah, the great prophet and he reads from near the end of it. “The spirit of God is on me. God has chosen me to bring good news to the poor. God’s sent me to free captives, give sight to the blind, liberate the oppressed and declare a time of restoration, rejuvenation and renewal for all creation.” He then tells everyone that what he just read has been fulfilled in their hearing.

Let’s just pause there for a minute before we come to the people’s reaction.

I believe that Jesus’ ministry is meant to show us more than just what God is capable of in Jesus: it’s meant to show us what God is capable of in us. And, of course, when I say that, I don’t mean a particular religious convention that we call “God,” I mean the life that is in all things, the love, the energy, the universal source that connects us all in that living. I mean the inherent good, creative force that inspires and move us. I mean what I think Luke means when he says “the Holy Spirit.”

I wonder if that isn’t also what Isaiah means. And why Luke tells the story in this way, constantly repeating the presence of the Spirit as Jesus begins his ministry: in his baptism, in his time of discovery in the wilderness, as he begins his ministry and as he proclaims his ministry. Jesus shows us the divinity that is in each of us, all of us. Jesus is just like us, human and divine, hoping to bring us back to God by reconnecting us with the divinity that’s in us, too. “Love one another as I have loved you” doesn’t mean that we imitate Jesus in practice, but that we connect with the spirit that is in us as well as the humanity and be Jesus in our world.

I wonder if all of this might point to Jesus proclaiming Isaiah’s words fulfilled “in your hearing” - he doesn’t say “in me” or “in what I’m about to do.” I wonder if Jesus means to tell the people that the words are fulfilled every time they’re proclaimed and, more importantly, when the spirit moves us to enact them. I wonder if this is Jesus telling us that the spirit is on all of us, we are all chosen and sent, we are all meant to live what we proclaim. It’s as if Jesus were saying the spirit of God is in all of us, let me now show you - in my ministry and in my life - how the time has come for you to live it.

That’s not easy. Or welcome, sometimes. Let’s go back to Luke’s story for a minute. Initially, the crowd is amazed at Jesus. But then they realize he’s just the son of Joseph the carpenter, he’s a local boy, and they’re indignant and offended and threaten him. Not everyone hears the message the same way. That didn’t stop Jesus from proclaiming it or living it. It shouldn’t stop us, either.

All the Parts

Unity and uniformity are not the same thing. 

And thank goodness! Imagine what the world would be like if we were all the same. Imagine what the world would be like if all the trees and flowers, animals and birds were all the same.

Well, you can't, really, can you?  Such perfect uniformity is beyond our ability to comprehend. Thank goodness again.

We're all unique, not only in appearance but in age, gender, sexual orientation, personality, skills, philosophy, culture, religion - the list goes on. In fact, all of creation is unique and different. But we are all still part of the one world in which we live.

In one of his letters to the people in Corinth, the apostle Paul reminds them of that. He was responding to squabbles and divisions in their community. So he reminds them that everyone has their own gifts - abilities, skills, talents - but there is only one source of life from which those gifts come. Paul calls it the Spirit or the power of God, that gives these gifts, but we might also know it as the power of creation or the energy of life, or we might know it simply as love. However you know it, it’s both the source of our life and the thing that connects us all.

If only Paul could think of a metaphor for how unique and diverse we are, that also shows how we’re connected. Something that reminds us that we all need each other. Something that includes everything and everyone, even the things we’d rather not have to deal with, and reminds us that they’re all important. All of them. We could really use that now, Paul.

Together, Paul writes, we are one body and each is a different and individual part of that one body. "For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ" (1 Corinthians 12:12). Furthermore, everyone is a different part of that body, just as everyone has different gifts and abilities, and every member is important to the body. Everyone is needed. Everyone is equal.

Yes, equal. Though, in fairness, Paul says that the least are in fact greater: "God has so arranged the body, giving the greater honour to the inferior member, that there may be no dissension within the body, but the members may have the same care for one another" (1 Corinthians 12:24-25). That’s how we have health and wholeness.

But that isn't what we do, is it? It wasn’t the practice in Paul’s day, either. Back then, the metaphor of the body was already in use as a way to describe a city or town. And it was used as a means to assign not only gifts and abilities but status as well. Those that did the work that made them feet and hands did not have the same status as those who did the thinking, for example. While everyone was necessary to the whole, your status was determined by the value of your ability to the whole. For many, it still is.

But Paul's body isn’t about commodities, it’s about people. The body that Paul describes reflects love for everyone, no matter who they are, what they do, what they think or know or feel or even what they believe. In this body, every member is a part of the whole simply by "being" in the first place. In fact, in this body, the strong care for the weak, the wise care for the foolish, the big care for the small, everyone respects everyone and we’ve learned that everyone is a gift worthy of love and sharing.

If we want our communities to be healthy and whole, maybe this is a good place to start.

The World in a Stable

Just before I put away our nativity scene (our creche or manger scene, if you like) this year, I paused for a moment to take it all in, one last time. We might put the figures away and box up the stable, but I like to think the characters continue on with us.

What adventures are ahead? I don’t really know, but I feel better knowing that we can go together. If not in person, then in story and in heart, in imagination and awareness. I think that’s comforting. And inspiring.

We have further stories of Jesus to guide us, but what about the shepherds and the magi? The shepherds may well have returned to the comfort of their flocks and fields, but the magi, fearful of Herod, it says, “returned home by another road.” Wherever they went, I’m sure they took with them the experience of meeting Jesus and all it meant. For the shepherds, hoping for a messiah, it meant a promise kept and hope realized. For the magi, following a sign in the sky, it meant a prophecy fulfilled. For all of us, it means that same love they found can be found in every journey.

That’s ahead. Before we put it away again until next year, it might also be useful to consider how everyone in the nativity scene got here, arriving at the tableau it represents. 

I like to think of the angel as the stage manager in this production directed by God. The angel instigates and moves the action on, but the characters live it.

Mary and Joseph arrived here both by the grace of God and the command of the oppressive occupiers of their country. That night was the intersection of the divine and the earthly powers.

I think of any animals that might have been on hand as innocent bystanders, unintentional witnesses of a new life in the world. But then, animals are much more in tune with creation around them, so who’s to say that they didn’t instinctively know that the creator was coming there?

The shepherds were on hand because they were told to be. As much as they might have been waiting in hope for the coming of the messiah, the good news was proclaimed to them and they followed directions to find Jesus. That’s part of their story, they then went and told everyone “what had been told them about this child” and they were “glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.” Everything they had seen and heard brought them to Jesus.

But the magi are a different story entirely. They were seekers. They were from a different culture, different religion, different world entirely, but they followed a sign, the star, which they interpreted to mean a prophecy was fulfilled. They didn’t know where they were going and I don’t think they really knew what they would find until they found it. And somehow they knew it was just the right thing.

However they came, from wherever they came, they all met Jesus and found just what they were looking for: love, unconditional, innocent and new, just like a child. We all know God our own way, we come to God our own way and we are all loved by God, just as we are, whoever we are, however we are, wherever we come from. And we can love, just as we are. A child will show us how.

The Light Shines

There's an old celtic story I like that begins with two brothers who don't get along. They competed with each other most of their lives and when their father died, they fought over who should inherit the family farm. Their bitterness and ill will was fracturing the community in which they lived.

Tired of trying to mend their relationship, the local priest finally said to them both, "look, I'll make you a bet. You each take one half of your father's land and work it, harvesting all that you can. We will divide the big barn into three parts. Whoever fills the barn the most, by sunset on the last day of the season, will win. If one of you wins, then you claim the farm and the other moves to another county. If I win, the two of you will embrace each other, work the farm together and live as brothers should."

"But you have only the land around the church," said one brother. "That's hardly good to grow anything," said the other, "what will you grow?"

"That's not your concern," said the priest. "Do we have a bet?"

The brothers knew the priest could not win, so they leapt at the chance to claim the farm once and for all. They agreed.

All summer they worked, tilling and planting, nurturing their crops. And the priest seemed to do nothing.

As the crops ripened, they harvested all they could, working hard from dawn to dusk, one eye on their work, the other on their competition. Still, the priest did nothing.

The barn became increasingly full and the two brothers seemed so close, one could hardly tell who might win. But the priest's part of the barn remained empty.

On the very last day, as the sun set, the brothers bundled in the last of their crops. The priest was nowhere to be seen. The brothers laughed and waited impatiently to measure their harvests, confident that each was the winner.

But just as the last bright rays of the sun shone on the barn door, the priest appeared. He walked straight into the barn, took a lantern from his pack and lit it. The light from the lamp filled the barn, illuminating even the darkest corners.

The brothers realized the priest had won. Looking at their great harvest by the light of the priest's lamp, they also realized the foolishness of their quarrel. Inspired by the light, their love for one another became a bright light in their community.

I know what you're thinking: boy, those clergy are smart! No? Oh, well, then maybe you're thinking that it was just a trick on the priest's part and you can't believe that the two men fell for it or gave in quite so easily.

But that's the thing about light. We take it so for granted. We can easily forget its power to illuminate truth and wisdom as well as "stuff."

The Gospel of John doesn't have a narrative birth story for Jesus. Instead, John talks about "the Word" become flesh and how "the true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world" (John 1:9). Jesus, John says, is the light which shows us how to live. Jesus, John says, makes God "known" to us.

The candles we light at Christmas shine on more than a child in a manger. They symbolize the light that comes into the world through the life of Jesus. They symbolize the light that, like the priest's lantern, shows more than "stuff."

This is the light of love, grace, compassion and justice. It doesn't tell us where or how to step, but offers us illumination as we journey.

A Christmas Wish

I wish for peace this Christmas.

My wish is not so grand as to ask that the world will see less conflict, an end to war and violence and a more cooperative approach to all relationships. I would like that and it’s truly important. I forever hope that we will continue to struggle towards that peace. And I mean the hope of faith and certainty that we will get there. One day.

But this Christmas, I wish for something simpler, something more personal: peace for you.

I wish for peace that is a quieted spirit in a frenetic world.

I wish for peace that is rest from anxiety.

I wish for peace that is the warming of cold hearts.

I wish for peace that is the healing of broken hearts.

I wish for peace that is a moment of comfort in grief.

I wish for peace that is forgiveness.

I wish for peace that is a healthy mind and body.

I wish for peace that is having enough.

I wish for peace that is contentment with being just who we are.

I wish for peace that is found in belonging.

I wish for peace that is time with those we love.

I wish for peace that is found in dreams and in remembering.

I wish for peace that is found in visions and learning.

I wish for peace that is a warm bed.

I wish for peace that is a sky full of stars.

I wish for peace that is fresh air and clean water.

I wish for peace that is wholeness.

I wish for peace that is knowing we are all loved.

I wish you peace this Christmas.

Imagine that

Last week, I wrote about the song “Mary did you know.” I mentioned the controversy around it (yes, Mary did know, why are you asking?) but went in the direction of how valuable it is to ask questions and wonder about the characters in the Christmas Story. How else can we engage them, get to know them, relate to them. Imagine the story coming alive. Imagine the different perspectives in the story from all those characters. Imagine what that might say to us today. Imagine the timeless story finding its way into today’s world.

Wonder. Imagine.

I also suggested that the angel’s visit to Mary provided only the big picture, not the details of getting there, first to the birth and then the life which will be lived. In talking about that, I referred to the expectations of the people for what kind of messiah would be coming. It’s something we’re often reminded of, particularly at Christmas, but also later, when Jesus arrives in Jerusalem that last week of his life. I wrote “remember, just like so many of the other characters in the story, Mary’s understanding of the messiah they were expecting was likely a warrior-king with wealth and armies that would overthrow the oppressor and restore the glory of Israel. Truly, that would be somebody that would be worthy of ‘the throne of his ancestor David.’”

Someone called me on my minister-splaining and suggested that it’s possible Mary didn’t think that at all. What if the reason Mary was chosen, the reason she was “favoured” by God, was because she believed that the messiah could be something different? What if Mary knew the messiah could be a bringer of peace, not war, a healer, a builder, a lover? What if Mary could already imagine something different? What if there were others who wondered that, too? “You may say that I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one,” sings John Lennon in Imagine.

What if that’s how the adult Jesus connected so closely with the twelve seemingly random people he chose as his inner circle of friends? What if that’s how Jesus connected with all his followers: that they, too, dreamed of love and peace and grace, that they, too, intuitively knew we are all both human and divine?

That’s a lot of questions, but that’s just my point: I want to know more. I want the characters in the story to be more than flat, one-dimensional set pieces that justify a particular religious thought or tradition. I want them to be people that I can relate to, complicated and simple, fearful and strong, faithful and tempted, loving and challenged by love, divine and human.

Mary may have been “meek and mild,” she may also have been tough and strong. Perhaps she was innocent and naive or she may have been an old soul, aware of the wonders of the universe. She may have been so much more than the bare words of old gospel writers. I wonder if she could tell us more about that. 

Is it any wonder?

“Mary did you know” has become a popular Christmas song recently. I like it. I like the idea of being able to interact with a character in the Christmas story, asking questions and wondering what they might be thinking or feeling. For me, wonder is a key component of Advent and Christmas, both the wonder of amazement and the wonder of understanding.

If you, somehow, haven’t heard it, “Mary did you know” is a series of questions, asking Mary, as a new mother, if she knew what her son would do and be when he grows up. There’s mention, in the questions, of some of the miracles from the gospel stories and scriptural references that describe the son of God, but wondering about the answers is left to us.

There’s some controversy about it, though. Some folks don’t like the idea of questioning Mary or her awareness of what was happening. Some just think the song, at best, is redundant. Because the answer is “yes.” Yes, she did know. Read the story. It’s pretty clear. The angel tells her the child will be the son of God and “he will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.” (Luke 1:32-33)

Okay, but there’s not a lot of detail there. Certainly Mary accepts the angel’s words (“let it be with me according to your word”) and seems secure in her understanding of the big picture, secure enough to inspire the words “surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name.” (Luke 1:38, 48-49) But I wonder what Mary was feeling about the first steps on this journey and I wonder if she expected that grand description to turn out, in detail, the way it did for her and for her son.

I’m not questioning the presence of the divine in the story, nor am I suggesting that Mary felt anything less than fully trusting in God. But I also think that here is a moment to wonder about the very human characters experiencing this wonder, to come closer to them and their story, a story of meeting God and sharing love in a way that could not have been expected. I want to be part of that story.

The angel didn’t say anything at all about the hardships that were ahead even before the child was born, nothing about shepherds or magi or Herod or how Mary and Joseph, a poor young couple, would provide for the Son of God. And remember, just like so many of the other characters in the story, Mary’s understanding of the messiah they were expecting was likely a warrior-king with wealth and armies that would overthrow the oppressor and restore the glory of Israel. Truly, that would be somebody that would be worthy of “the throne of his ancestor David.” How could that be her son?

Jesus was something different. I’d like to wonder about what Mary thought of that. I’d like to wonder if she had expectations for the future like anyone else or simply the hope - the certainty of hope - that, whatever happens, God is with us and that is enough. Perhaps it was both. I wonder if she could tell us more about that.