What God offers us this Christmas. December 24/25, 2021. The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges

Luke 2:1-20

So how are you feeling right now? Are you full of hope, joy, peace, and all the other positive emotions that you know you are supposed to feel at Christmas? Maybe. I hope so. But life is hardly ever that clear cut. Likely there are other feelings as well. My guess is that some of us are holding sorrow in our hearts right now. Or maybe frustration or disappointment or pain. Others may be feeling frazzled by all the rush and responsibility of the past few weeks. While probably all of us are experiencing some degree of anxiety and exhausted from living close to two years now in the world of pandemic.

The emotions we experience at Christmas can be quite complicated. But part of the good news is that the Christmas story makes room for that. As much as I love singing carols, like Silent Night, I am well aware that “all” is not really “calm and bright.” In fact, the reason the Christmas story holds so much hope and joy and peace for us is because it doesn’t start there. Instead it starts with another complicated emotion that may not even feel like it belongs at Christmas - and that emotion is fear. It started with fear for Mary and Joseph when they each received a vision from an angel, announcing what was about to happen. And in our Christmas reading it starts with fear for the shepherds.

Now the shepherds were no scaredy cats. They were tough guys who slept in the wilderness and fought-off wild animals to protect their flocks. They were definitely not the type to be easily intimidated. But when  an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, they were terrified.

I’d like to think of this as proof that the first people to whom God announced the birth of God’s son didn’t have it any more together than we do. When they were confronted with clear  evidence that God was taking an interest in their lives they were filled with fear. And in response to that, the angel offered the rather impossible advice that angels always seem to give, that is, “Do not be afraid.” Now you may know that of all the commands we have in the Bible, “Do not be afraid,” is the one that comes up the most. In some translations it appears 365 times, one for every day of the year. Obviously, God thinks we need to hear it - and often. That’s probably because it’s such a hard command to follow.

Because those shepherds were not unique. The realities of life give us all reasons to fear. And I imagine that there are some heavy fears in this place. Some, perhaps, on a national, international, or even global scale like climate change, the refugee crisis, and, of course, the pandemic. While others are more personal like addiction, financial stress, health concerns, broken relationships, depression or loneliness. Honestly, there are almost an unlimited amount of circumstances that can cause us to fear. And in the face of that, the angel’s command to “not be afraid” seems almost laughable. Impossible to obey - at least on our own.

But maybe it could be possible with the help of the Savior that the angel promises. Maybe we could let go of our fears if God sent a superhero who could take control and overpower all the chaos, conflict, and instability that gives us such good reason to be afraid. But that’s not exactly what the angel promises. The Savior isn’t going to be a superhero. The Savior is going to be a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger. Talk about irony. The angel declares, “Do not to be afraid,” and then follows that up with an image of profound vulnerability. A picture, not of one who can soothe away our fears, but of one who needs to be soothed. Because that’s what bands of cloth do. They are used to swaddle, to wrap an infant tightly in cloth. For newborns are used to being tightly held inside the womb. They’re used to warmth and closeness which makes the emptiness of open air quite frightening. So babies are wrapped in swaddling clothes so that the pressure provides a comforting sense that the world isn't really so big and scary after all.

A rather odd sign for the shepherds - and for us - that we don’t need to be afraid. But could it be that this vulnerability, this incarnation of God who becomes so human that he actually knows what it’s like to feel insecure and even afraid, that this is precisely the power of God’s response to the reality of our fears? Because we don’t have a God who stands from afar, unmoved, and says, “there’s nothing to be afraid of.” Just the opposite, in the story of Christmas, the story of the child wrapped in bands of cloth, God literally embodies the message, “I won’t leave you alone in your fear  or in any other part of your life. I will join you. I am with you.”

Because Jesus knows what it feels like to be afraid, he also knows one other thing. He knows what it feels like to feel the comfort of being held in love - which is exactly what God offers to us this Christmas. We are enfolded in love right now. And my prayer this day, and every day, is that we might know how securely the love of God holds each and every one of us. For when we feel that love in our lives amongst all the complicated emotions we experience, God’s perfect love for you, for me and for all people has the power to cast out all fear so that we might truly have lasting hope and joy and peace. It is this love in which Jesus was held in the arms of his mother - who also knew the challenge of fear, but faced it in order to know what it was to give birth to Love. A love that changes the world. A love that changes us. A love which was and is and always will be good news of great joy for all the people.

Merry Christmas!   

 

 

God favors the underdog. December 19, 2021. The Rev. David M. Stoddart

 Micah 5:2-5a; Luke 1:39-55

But you, O Bethlehem of Eph’rathah, who are one of the little clans of Judah, from you shall come forth for me one who is to rule in Israel. Of course. Of course the Messiah would come from one of the little clans of Judah. What else could we possibly expect? The Bible consists of many books, written by many authors with many theological perspectives over the course of many centuries, but one thing remains constant from the beginning of Genesis to the end of Revelation: God favors the underdog. Since the moment God called Abram, that childless, wandering Aramean, to become the father of a people as numerous as the stars of heaven, time after time after time God chooses what is small and insignificant, even what is broken and scorned, to perform wonders. Moses is a murderer, an exile, and an incompetent speaker who leads the Israelites out of their slavery in Egypt; David is the youngest of the sons of Jesse, a shepherd boy who can’t even wear armor when he defeats the giant Goliath with a single small stone; the list of prophets is a veritable Who’s Who of nobodies to whom God says, “You will speak for me.” And after being born in a dusty backwater and growing up in the sticks, Jesus uses a ragtag group of fishermen and peasants to change the world with a message that, over and over again, the poor and the weak grasp before the rich and the powerful. So constant and relentless is this theme that Paul, himself a shocking choice to be an apostle, writes to the Corinthians: God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to reduce to nothing things that are, so that no one might boast in the presence of God (1 Cor. 1:27-29). So it should not surprise us at all when, in our Gospel today, one obscure pregnant woman greets another obscure pregnant woman carrying God in her womb. What Mary says to Elizabeth could serve as a byline for the entire Bible: My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.

Lowliness. An old-fashioned word and a hard message to preach because I know how much our society values “greatness,” or what we perceive to be greatness. In many ways we worship, we give worth to, success, achievement, money, and power. We are raised to crave social status and the good opinion of others. And we are taught not to be weak, not to be losers. A member of my parish in Massachusetts, a very driven guy, used to tell me frequently, “Failure is not an option.” But the truth is that sometimes failure is the only option. Sometimes we don’t succeed; sometimes we’re not strong enough or smart enough or talented enough to do what we want to do. And let me be clear: I’m sure God delights in our gifts and loves to see us use those gifts; I’m sure God wants us to thrive. But more than anything else, God wants us. And we want God – we need God. And that means we need hearts that are humble, open, and receptive to all that God would give us. The problem is that our egos and our social conditioning continually get in the way of that. So it’s often our failures and limitations that help us the most. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, with brutal honesty: I have learned more from my failures than from my successes; owning my own human frailty and weakness has taught me far more about loving, about giving and receiving mercy, about living compassionately than any ego-gratifying success ever has. We may not want to be lowly — but in lowliness lies our salvation. That is the clear and consistent teaching of Scripture, and the witness of countless saints and mystics for two thousand years.

Today is the Fourth Sunday of Advent. Maybe you are incredibly busy mailing Christmas cards, buying presents, and decorating your homes. Or maybe you’re not really getting ready  for Christmas at all. Wherever you find yourself this morning, I would like to offer a suggestion, a way of preparing yourself, not just for Christmas but for Christ. And as a guide I will use Psalm 131, a short poem with a deep spiritual message. It reads like this:

O Lord, I am not proud;

I have no haughty looks.

I do not occupy myself with great matters,

or with things that are too hard for me.

But I still my soul and make it quiet,

like a child upon its mother’s breast;

my soul is quieted within me.

O Israel, wait upon the LORD,

from this time forth for evermore.

In the coming week, I invite you to spend time in that place where you are not proud. It’s within all of us, that place where we know we are not Wonder Woman or Superman, that place where we are not so full of ourselves that there’s no room for God or for anything else. It’s where we feel weak and vulnerable, where we feel empty. Don’t run from it, don’t try to hide it, don’t be ashamed of it. Just allow yourself to be a fragile and needy human being in the presence of God. Pray out of that place. That is where Christ will enter because that is where we will welcome him. The Savior who comes among us as a child teaches us that we must receive the kingdom like a child: not trying to earn it or outsmart it or bend it to our will, but accepting it in humility as a gift. And if we are willing to do that, if we are willing to let down our defenses and let Jesus in, then over time he will pour out on us what he always pours out on fragile and needy people who let him: forgiveness and mercy, grace and strength, joy and peace — and the unconditional, unending love of God.

So in that spirit, as one frail and limited person in a congregation of frail and limited people, I say on behalf of all of us: Come, Lord Jesus. Come.

The life that is joy. December 12, 2021. The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges

Philippians 4:4-7, Luke 3:7-18

Joy. That word comes up a lot during this time of year. Holiday cards, decorations, and music are full of it. Yet with all the talk around being joyful during this time of year instead of filling us with joy it can often backfire by heightening our sense of how our lives seem as if they don’t match up with how we think “Joy” is supposed to be. Experiences such as loneliness, family tensions, unexpected crises, grief, the ever evolving Covid situation, and the worrisome nature of national events can all pile on in a way that makes “Joy” feel as if it is beyond our reach.

So when we hear our reading from Philippians does it just sound like just more of the same? Rejoice in the Lord always, writes the apostle Paul, again I will say, Rejoice. I wonder, is rejoicing easy for you right now or hard? The answer often depends on what’s going on in our world. Typically, when things are good we can rejoice. But when things are difficult, not so much. If that’s the case for you, it may be helpful to know that Paul’s invitation to joy doesn’t come from someone who’s enjoying the good life. He’s not sitting around a Christmas tree listening to carols while drinking eggnog and eating gingerbread cookies. Far from it. Paul is rotting in a Roman jail where conditions are squalor and his future is grim. Yet even from that place he speaks of joy. Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice.

Paul does not speak from a place of sheltered optimism, but from a wisdom acquired over years of experience. Experience that often included struggle and hardship. Experience that taught him that no matter the outward circumstances of life there is always a reason to rejoice. Because the joy of which Paul speaks is not an emotional high or a state of perpetual happiness or even an absence of conflict. Rather, joy is more lasting than that. It is a deep satisfaction that comes from being connected with God and with what God is doing in the world.

Which brings me, oddly enough, to our reading from the gospel of Luke and the firebrand John the Baptist. Mr. Killjoy himself, or so I thought, until recently I learned that he is actually considered the patron saint of spiritual joy. He’s given that title because back when he was a babe in his mother’s womb John leaped for joy at the presence of Mary and Jesus. Although that baby grew into a man a bit rough around the edges, his joy never fades as he continually points the way to God in Christ which he is doing today. He’s preaching to the crowds in his sharp, abrasive way, calling them names and calling them out. Telling them that they need to bear fruit worthy of repentance. And, surprisingly, instead of becoming defensive the crowd is able to hear the good news. So they ask, “What should we do?” “How do we repent?” And John gives them answers. But you know what strikes me? It’s just how unoriginal and ordinary those answers are. He doesn’t tell them - or us - anything we have not already heard before. He basically says to share what you have, to be honest and fair in your dealings, and to not abuse your power. John isn’t asking us to go and change the world, but to change ourselves. He doesn’t tell us to leave our lives and start a revolution. He tells us to go and live our lives but to live them differently - with purpose and intention. Go and be generous now. Be merciful now. Promote justice now. Go and live as deeply and as generously as you can in the life that you have right now.

For when we live that way, bearing fruit worthy of repentance, whether we realize it or not, we deepen our relationship with God by being a part of what God is doing in the world. We are operating in the flow of love, compassion, and connection. And do you know what happens when we are living in God’s flow? We experience joy. Joy that is not tied to circumstances - which are always bound to change. But joy that is enduring and sustaining even when we are worn down by life challenges. This is because our joy is grounded in the one who never changes. The apostle Paul doesn’t tell us to rejoice for rejoicing’s sake, but to rejoice in the Lord. That’s the key. No matter what is going on in our lives, whether we are stretched to our limit, as Paul is in the Roman prison, or our lives are smooth sailing - for the moment - our Lord God will never let us down. For God is always opening up God’s life to us, making available to us the life of infinite love, peace, forgiveness, mercy. The life that is joy. A joy is bound together with action, the “fruit worthy of repentance” in the language of John the Baptist. For rejoicing and repenting are always flowing back and forth from one another. And we can enter into this stream of God’s flow anywhere we want.

Now I have no doubt that between now and Christmas we will continually be bombarded by the message of joy. But whether or not our lives appear perfectly joyful in the eyes of the world really doesn’t matter.  What does matter is that our eyes see and our hearts know that true joy, lasting joy, ultimately does not come from outward circumstances, but from the inward connection we have with God and God’s work in the world. If we want to know joy it is always available to us.  Enter into the flow. Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice.

 

Purifying love. December 5, 2021. The Rev. David M. Stoddart

Malachi 3:1-4

“He’s making a list, he’s checking it twice, he’s gonna find out who’s naughty or nice.” You know, when you think about it, that’s a pretty sinister song. I mean, I don’t want to sound like a Scrooge, but who is this guy? “He sees you when you’re sleeping and he knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.” That’s just creepy. I don’t know where that thinking comes from, but we do not want it to taint our view of God or our understanding of what Advent is all about. In our opening collect today, we prayed: “Merciful God, who sent your messengers the prophets to preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation: Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer.” I do not believe we should interpret this to mean, “You better watch out! If you don’t behave, you’re going to be in serious trouble, because Jesus Christ is coming to town.” To avoid this, we need to do what our collect tells us to do and actually heed the words of  the prophets. So look at our reading from Malachi today. The LORD is certainly coming, and he is coming as fire, but not as a destructive wildfire or as the flames of some mythical hell. No, the prophet Malachi says the Holy One is coming as a refiner’s fire. When you refine silver or gold, you melt them down with extreme heat, and then the dross floats to the top. The dross is then removed, thus purifying the metal. The refiner’s fire does not destroy the metal: it makes it stronger and better. In the same way, Malachi says, God will come as fuller’s soap. Fullers use such soap, which is like bleach, not to destroy woolen fabric but to make it brighter and fuller. When God comes among us, the prophet says, we will be purified and made stronger and brighter. God’s coming is good news.

And John the Baptist agrees. He may have a fiery personality, but he does not prophesy damnation and destruction. Quite the opposite: valleys will be filled, mountains will be brought low, crooked ways will be made straight, every obstacle will be removed, and all flesh shall see the salvation of God. Not just “all faithful Jews,” not just “all baptized Christians who go to church,” but all flesh — every human being. God’s coming is good news.

So, then, why all this talk about heeding warnings, repenting, and forsaking our sins? Put simply, the process of purification is a painful one. The more we cooperate with it, the easier it will be. Jesus really does come as a refiner’s fire. He glows white hot with God’s love, and he brings all the dross to the service. We see it throughout the Gospels. He is compassionate and merciful, and in the brilliance of his light we see some people clinging to their money, some trying to dominate or condemn their neighbors, some hating anyone who is different than they are, some arrogantly and wrongly claiming to be super righteous, some desperately fearing the loss of power and prestige. It all reaches its terrible climax on the cross: Jesus loves with the fire of God’s heart — and they kill him. The dross of ignorance and sin which rises to the surface is visible in all its ugliness. And even then Jesus forgives it all. The real grief is the unwillingness of so many people to see and welcome what he is all about. What God is all about.

But there are others who consent to his purifying love. Their impurities surface and they are willing to acknowledge them and let them go: Zacchaeus paying back everyone he has defrauded; Peter accepting forgiveness after his denial; Paul turning from murderous persecutor to devoted apostle. Seeing ourselves as we really are and allowing ourselves to be changed is definitely not easy; Paul in particular knows how costly this purifying process is. He assures the Corinthians that they will all experience salvation, the new and eternal life of the Gospel, but only as through fire (1 Cor. 3:15).

So it takes faith and courage to pray the way we do in Advent: “Come, Lord Jesus. Bring your fire and shine your light!” Speaking just for myself, it’s painful seeing all my unattractive features brought to light by Christ, especially during the course of this pandemic. My personal dross includes a propensity to anger and frustration, a lack of patience, a reluctance to trust, frequent temptation to give into despair, a need to shore up my fragile ego, and all too often the failure to love and show compassion. I can try to flee from such painful self-knowledge and resist God’s efforts to heal me and make me whole — or I can practice letting the Christ light in and letting the dross go. And the same choice lies before each one of you as well.

Fortunately, God really is the way Jesus reveals God to be: unfailingly merciful, infinitely patient. We can resist change and refuse to grow indefinitely, and God will still love us. And God will never give up on us. But when we choose not to heed the prophets and not to practice that change of mind and heart we call “repentance,” then we are the ones who suffer, as does the world around us. The point here isn’t that we do it perfectly, but that we do it at all. Even partially consenting to the transforming work of God in our lives opens the door and gives the Holy Spirit room to work wonders. So if nothing else this Advent season, I would urge us all to examine at least one area of our life which, in the light of Christ, we see is broken or hurting, some part of ourselves where the dross has floated to the top and become all too visible. See it for what it is. And pray out of that place: “Come, Lord Jesus, let your light shine where I most need it. Come, Lord Jesus, pour out your forgiveness and mercy upon me. Come, Lord Jesus, help me to grow and change in ways that will bless me and the world around me. Come, Lord Jesus, let your Spirit abound more and more in my life. I give myself to the purifying power of your love. Come, Lord Jesus, come.” Amen.

A grounding in real life. November 28, 2021. The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges

 

Luke 21:25-36

It was Halloween night and I saw the sign. This sweet toddler, no more than a year and a half old, dressed up as ice cream came to my door. Her parents, dressed as ice cream scoopers, were enthusiastically standing behind her. (Clearly they were first time parents!) It was all very cute.

 After the appropriate oohing and aahing, I bent down with my bowl of candy and dropped in the little girl’s bucket a chocolate bar. But as I did she spied all the other chocolates in my bowl and innocently reached for more. “Oh no, all done,” her father said as he twisted his hand back and forth. The little girl saw it, stepped back, and did the same thing with her and. It wasn’t obvious, but I saw it. It was a sign. It was sign language for “All done.” So to reinforce what her father was saying I did it too. “All done,” I said as I made the sign, smiling as she toddled off with her parents in tow towards the next house. No doubt in hopes of more candy.

 That brief encounter got me thinking about signs - whether they be sign language signs, literal signs, or symbolic signs - and how funny they are because in and of themselves they are meaningless. Nothing really is a sign unless someone interprets it as such. The twisting of the hand could have just been seen as a twitch or nothing at all. And take the Advent wreath. For those of us in the Church it’s a clear sign that we have just begun a new church year along with starting a new season in the Church, Advent. Because there is one candle lit we know that we are in the first of the four weeks of that season, and most importantly it signals to us the coming of Christ into our lives. But to someone outside the Church, it probably just looks like a fire hazard waiting to ignite. Which suggests that just like beauty, when it comes to signs, meaning is in the eye of the beholder.

 In our reading from the gospel of Luke, Jesus speaks of signs in the sun, moon, and stars. Picking up from two Sundays ago, he has just told the disciples that the Jewish temple will fall. And in response the disciples ask for a sign. A sign, they say, so they will know when this is about to take place. But really, I suspect, they want a sign so that they will know that even in the midst of the coming chaos God is present and that ultimately things will be OK. Because isn’t that what we all want? When the unexpected and unwelcome happens, when what we thought we could count on falls apart, when we are afraid about what the future might hold, isn’t what we want to know, what we need to know, is that we are not alone, that God is with us, and it will all be OK? 

 But why, you may be wondering, am I talking about such things? I mean it’s the Sunday after Thanksgiving which launches us into a month of holiday glitz and glitter. Now is the time in our culture to paper over life’s imperfections, to put the most positive of spins on our family stories, to act as if there is no darkness in the world as we sing about it being the most wonderful time of the year. Why bring up anything negative? Why? Well, because one of the gifts we always receive on the first Sunday in Advent is a grounding in real life. Jesus’ words reject the false advertising of our culture by naming the truth that life is hardly ever that perfect nor smooth - giving us permission that we don’t have to pretend otherwise. The truth is that life always holds richness and blessings while at the same time presenting us with challenges and difficulties. Advent reminds us that in the midst of that complexity, Christ is always coming into our lives, God is present, and ultimately, everything will be OK.

 But how do we know this? Because Jesus reveals it in word and in deed. And because it’s a message that always needs to go deeper we are given signs. Like, as Jesus says, in the sun, moon, and stars; in the distress among nations; in the roaring of the sea and its waves. Although some may say so, these signs are not of warning or threat rather they are signs of hope and reassurance if only we know how to read them. So Jesus teaches us how to do just that in the parable of the fig tree. When we see the leaves - now for us it may not be on a fig tree, it really could be any tree - but when we see spouting leaves we naturally give it meaning. We understand it as a sign that something is happening even though we can’t fully see it yet. It signals that a new season is coming, that summer is already near, bringing with it new life, new growth, new hope.

 So what are the signs that God is putting in your life right now? Do you see them and understand their meaning? Remember the signs are often as common and ordinary as sprouting leaves like a blue sky day or an encouraging word or a warm embrace. We are given these signs so that we may not become weighed down by the worries of this life, but instead are able to “Stand up,” as Jesus says, “and raise [our] heads, because [our] redemption is drawing near." But make no mistake, this is not simply an admonition to “Chin up!” and be superficially cheerful for no particular reason except that it makes everyone else around us feel better. No, standing up and raising our heads is rooted in the faith that, as Jesus says, the kingdom of God is near. That Christ is coming in new ways. And that, in the end, all will be well - everything will be OK. But this faith is not something we do alone, on our own. We don’t raise our heads all by ourselves. We do it in community. It is together that we proclaim the faith. We hold the hope. We see the signs. We stand up and raise our heads believing that no matter the time or the circumstance our redemption is drawing near.

 As we enter into a new season where cultural signs abound sending the signal that life is supposed to be all shiny and bright, pay attention to the signs that really matter. The ordinary and common signs from God that tell a fuller and lasting truth. Something is happening even if we can’t fully see it yet - new life, new growth, new hope. See the signs. Christ is coming. God is with you. Everything will be OK.

In all circumstances. Thanksgiving Eve 11/24/21. The Rev. David M. Stoddart

 Thanksgiving Eve

Do any of you like board games? I really enjoy them: my  family and friends play a lot of them, especially during the holidays. And I was imagining recently how a Thanksgiving game might work. You could have different colored turkey meeples as your playing pieces, moving around the board and trying to fill their baskets with food items: meat, potatoes, pecan pies, chocolate — you know, all the essentials. Along the way, they could land on special tiles that give them extra cash, like you got a bonus at work or you cleaned your daughter’s room while she was at college and found $300. And then there would be special event cards you could collect, like your favorite football team won or your family made it through dinner without having an argument. And at the end of this turkey trot, you would convert all the food, cash, and special event cards int0 Thanksgiving victory points. And whoever has the most victory points wins. Put simply, the more good stuff you have, the more thankful you are. And the most thankful person comes out on top.

I don’t know if such a game would be any fun, but I do know it would completely miss the point of thanksgiving, at least from a Gospel perspective. Now, I know we’re supposed to focus on abundance. The collect we prayed at the beginning of this service emphasizes it, the prophet Joel talks about it in our first reading, our altar embodies it. And our society says as much. It’s like our civic duty to indulge in copious amounts of food and drink, and just in the plenitude we enjoy. And certainly most of us here have an abundance of material goods. And of course we should be grateful for what we have, but that is really not what giving thanks is primarily about. Because that would just be too transactional: I get good stuff, I say thank you. I don’t get good stuff, I don’t say thank you. Such an approach does not account for Jesus, who teaches even the poorest people to be thankful and who himself gives thanks on the night before he knows they will torture him and crucify him. Such an approach does not account for the Apostle Paul, who having been beaten, starved, shipwrecked, vilified, and imprisoned, tells the Thessalonians to give thanks in all circumstances. 

What’s that about? Well, you know what it’s about. In our heart of hearts, we all do. What I am about to say is the simplest thing in the world, a truth we swim in as a fish swims in the sea. It’s like the air we breathe: the very source of life and yet so easily taken for granted and ignored. Here’s the truth: we are created by and for a God of infinite love, a God who cherishes us and will hold us close forever. In the light of Christ, we know that thanksgiving is not transactional at all, it’s not a response that some circumstances call for and others do not. Thanksgiving is a way of life; no more than that, thanksgiving is a state of being. Our very existence is — or can be — a continuous act of thanksgiving. We could look to great saints like Julian of Norwich or Fancis of Assisi who demonstrate this, but we don’t need to. I am guessing, I’m hoping, that most of us here have seen this for ourselves, or at least glimpsed it in moments of being fully alive.

I had one such moment just recently. After a hard and challenging day, I was out walking our dog and looked up and saw Jupiter, brilliant in the darkening sky; and I felt a surge of joy and gratitude that seemingly came out of nowhere. I knew God’s love enfolded me and all of creation, and that was enough. In such moments we realize that all the good things we enjoy do not actually cause us to feel thankful; they simply unlock and give expression to a deeper gratitude that is always there. I exist, and wow, God, I also have food! I have family and friends! I have a church! I can listen to beautiful music, read good books, look up in awe at the night sky. And it’s not just positive things that can channel this gratitude energy. Wow, God, I failed miserably and yet here I am, the apple of your eye. There is so much anger and animosity around us, and yet here we are, awash in your love, which is stronger than any hatred. I’m sick, but there you are, right with me to strengthen and heal me. I’m dying, but I will rise to new life and be with you and all whom I love forever. Thank you. God’s love and goodness are infinite: there is literally no end to thanksgiving.

And we don’t have to make ourselves feel this; we don’t have to force it. To experience the kingdom of God is to be thankful, and that kingdom is within each one of us. When Jesus tells us, as he does in the Gospel tonight, to seek that kingdom, doing so begins by simply opening our eyes and our hearts and saying yes to its presence. That kingdom, like our existence, is a gift, and all the magnificent beauty of God comes with it. We have it all, or at least as much as we can bear, right now.

In a few moments, Mother Kathleen will stand at the altar and, on behalf of all of us, she will say, “It is right, and a good and joyful thing, always and everywhere, to give thanks to you, Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth.” And that great preface to the Eucharistic prayer will not continue by saying, “Because you give us all this really good food” or “Because you bestow on us lots of money, houses, and cars.” No, the Preface appointed for Thanksgiving will go on to say this: “For with your co-eternal Son and Holy Spirit, you are one God, one Lord, in Trinity of Persons and in Unity of Being; and we celebrate the one and equal glory of you, O Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” God is a perfect community of unending love, and we share in that divine life. Every genuine act of thanksgiving flows from that wondrous reality.

The same relentless message of acceptance, mercy, and love. November 21, 2021. The Rev. David M. Stoddart

John 18:33-37

I am reading a fascinating book by Madeline Miller called Circe, which tells the story of that nymph and witch who famously detains Odysseus on his journey home after the Trojan War  and turns his men into pigs. It’s a compelling read, narrated by Circe herself. And it’s terrible; literally, filled with terror. The various gods and goddesses who enter the story embody so much malice and cruelty. What matters to them is asserting their power over others, often with horrific results. And at one point, Circe says this:

Mortals had their own stories, after all, of what happened to those who mixed with gods. An ill-timed glance, a foot set in an impropitious spot, such things could bring death and woe upon their families for a dozen generations.

It was like a great chain of fear, I thought. Zeus at the top and my father [Helios] just behind. Then Zeus’ siblings and children, then my uncles, and on down through all the ranks of river-gods and brine-lords and Furies and Winds and Graces, until it came to the bottom where we sat, nymphs and mortals, each eyeing the other.

 A great chain of fear. Such mythological characters emerged from the depths of the human psyche, and down through the ages human society has too often mirrored them. For many people, power is the ultimate currency, specifically the power to dominate others and impose your will upon them. And what better way to do that than by terrifying them? How many emperors, kings, queens, czars, chieftains, premieres, and presidents have ruled through fear? The so-called Pax Romana, the “peace” which the Roman Empire imposed, was purchased at a horrible price: countless thousands of people slaughtered and crucified, whole populations beaten into submission through brutal force and sheer terror. And the Roman governor Pontius Pilate represents all of that: we know he massacred Jews in the Temple itself. He had no qualms about using such violence. The emperor ruled him through fear, and so he ruled Judea in the same way.

 It’s the only kind of power he recognizes, so we can’t really be surprised when he asks Jesus, incredulously, Are you the King of the Jews? There is no way that such a powerless and defenseless man could ever be a king in Pilate’s eyes. How can anyone reign without the use of force and fear? But Jesus completely rejects such a vision of ruling: My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over. But they’re not: that is not how power works in my kingdom. That is not how I exercise lordship.

 Pilate didn’t get it, but this morning, I don’t care whether Pilate got it. I don’t care whether the priests and Pharisees got it. I care whether we get it, and I mean, really get it. It’s easy to toss those terms “king” and “kingdom” around like fairy tale language: “Long ago and far away . . .” But what we celebrate on this final Sunday in the church year, the Feast of Christ the King, has immediate and life-changing implications for all of us.

 Jesus d0es not rule through fear. Despite centuries of bad theology and poor preaching, despite the church’s terrible tendency to threaten everyone with hellfire and damnation, that is not how Jesus rules. That doesn’t mean that human beings don’t have moments of awe and fear in the presence of the divine: of course we do — God is holy and awesome, but it is the awesomeness of love and utter goodness that we experience in such moments. Jesus does not seek to terrorize anyone. He wants to reign in our lives through the power of love and love alone.

 That means this. Jesus Christ says to each one of us: “I see you. I see your beauty and your desire for goodness. I see all the things that delight you. And I see how you struggle. I see all your sadness and your anger, all your frustration and your fear. And I see where you are broken, weak, and sinful. I know everything about you. And I love you. I love you unconditionally and forever. I will forgive you and I will heal you; I will comfort you and strengthen you. I will show you the wonders my love can do, and I will never, ever give up until you are filled with the Spirit of God and experience the full and joyful life of my kingdom.” And when we fail or forget, when we put ourselves into the hell of rage, resentment, or fear, he will just keep coming back with the same relentless message of acceptance, mercy, and love.

 And when we let ourselves experience that, we will see that Jesus Christ  is the King of kings and Lord of lords because we will see his power at work. This is not academic for me: I know how true it is. I am a very flawed and imperfect follower, but Christ has delivered me from the hell of self-condemnation and despair. Time and time again he has set me free from anger and frustration, and enabled me to love when I just didn’t think I could. I can have the crappiest day and fall flat on my face, but when I turn to him he just loves me and lifts me up. It’s not that he doesn’t care about our sins: he sees them clearly and wants us to see them as well. But always, always, always, his desire is not to condemn us but to help us and to heal us. He is a King who will do anything he has to do to lead his people, all God’s people, into true and lasting happiness. And because this is so, I bow to him as my Lord. Not because I fear him, but because I love him.

 I don’t know what your relationship with Jesus is. I know that Christ reveals himself to people in many different ways. What Christ needs to do in my life may be very different from what Christ needs to do in your life. But Christ wants to reign in all our lives, not to dominate us but to liberate us from all that holds us back from being truly alive. If you have not welcomed Christ as your Lord and King, I invite you to do so.  then see for yourself what his power, the power of love, can really do. Enter his kingdom and see for yourself what his power, the power of love, can really do.