Here to grow in love. January 30, 2022. The Rev. David M. Stoddart

 

1 Corinthians 13:1-13

What do you want to be when you grow up? I’m 61 years old, and I still think about it. I could preach a hundred sermons on this profound passage from First Corinthians and not begin to plumb its riches, but where the Spirit is leading me to this week is verse 11: When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways.

I remember the first thing I ever really wanted for Christmas. It was this bright candy apple red bicycle, a gaudy monstrosity: curled handlebars with streamers, a big banana seat with glitter on it, tall sissy bar in the back. Man, to the degree that an 8-year-old can lust for anything, I lusted for that bike. And I got it. And it was so great — for a few months. By the following Christmas, it was just taking up space in the garage, only used occasionally. I had moved on to other things, other objects to entice me. Children love their toys and are always looking for new ones to excite them and satisfy them. But I think it’s fair to say that that trait doesn’t just disappear at the age of 18. Adults also love their toys: their clothes, their cars, their houses, their money. In fact, in our culture, part of growing up is amassing more stuff: more toys, fancier gadgets, better homes, you name it. And of course these are not bad things: some of them can be very good. But they are not ultimate things; in and of themselves, they can never give us the happiness and fulfillment we so deeply desire.

And so it is that in the New Testament and in our Christian spiritual tradition, maturing as human beings does not mean accumulating more things, but rather letting go of more things. Now, when it comes to actual possessions and property, that often happens naturally. I have listened to many people talk about decluttering as they get older, downsizing their houses and simplifying their lives, which no doubt reflects the truth that we really don’t need lots of stuff.

But this passage today goes beyond just unloading possessions. It speaks to a deeper letting go: When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. It’s not just toys that we like, and not just physical things that we accrue. We develop habits of thinking. We amass success, achievements, social status, reputation, all the intangible things that shore up our egos and help us feel like we have value. And these things are also not bad: they have their place. But they, too, are not ultimate, and if we’re not careful, we may remain childish in our thinking and actually believe that acquiring all this stuff, physical and non-physical, is what life is all about, the source of our happiness and fulfillment. And, of course, it’s not.

Paul, having put an end to childish ways, knows this and reminds us that the only reason we are here is to grow in our capacity for love. Without love, all the toys that we value so much, all the signs of status and success we crave and work so hard to achieve, are meaningless. Even so-called “religious accomplishments” are pointless without love. If I speak in the tongues of mortals and angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. I could preach the greatest sermon in the world, but if I don’t do it with love, I’m just making noise. If I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. We could be amazingly talented, incredibly smart, super religious, but if we don’t have love, we are nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing. We could give away millions of dollars to the church and to charity, we could fight for all the right causes, even to the point of sacrificing ourselves, but if we don’t have love, you gain nothing.

If we are truly going to grow up spiritually and be mature in Christ, we must let go of the childish thinking and embrace Christ thinking, which can seem so counterintuitive to us. Jesus tells us that the first will be last and the last will be first — and he means it. If, for example, someone makes billions of dollars, receives adulation and acclaim, and donates enough money to get their name put on some medical research building, but does so without any genuine love, that could well be less significant in God’s eyes than a poor woman going grocery shopping for a friend who has COVID as an act of true compassion. The only thing that brings us close to the heart of God, the only thing that matters for our ultimate happiness is love: our willingness to love, the quality of our love, our growth in love.

What do we want to be when we grow up? I think we want to be lovers. And to do that, I find that I need to continually let go of things that get in the way of that. I have to let go of the need to be successful, the need to be seen as a good priest. I have to let go of status symbols and signs of achievement. I have to let go of the need to control events and establish some kind of security for myself. And all of us have to go through a similar process of letting go. Our goal everyday should be to love. The great questions are no longer things like, “Am I being successful?” or “Will this make me look good?”, but rather questions like “How can I love the people around me?” or “Am I showing love in what I am doing right now?” Those are the kinds of questions we should all be asking. And of course we won’t be perfect: we’re still growing up. But as long as we desire to love, as long as we intend to love, we will indeed be growing up. And I know for myself — and I imagine this is true for everyone — when I focus on loving, even when I fail miserably at it, I am so much happier and so much more at peace, because I am connecting with the very essence of God and the only thing that will make us happy forever.

 

 

The mission we share with Christ. January 23, 2022. The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges

Luke 4:14-21, 1 Corinthians 12:12-31a

Growing a Community in Christ...Sharing Christ's Love with the World. Sound familiar? I hope it does. It’s Church of Our Saviour’s mission statement. We certainly talk about it and you’ll find it on almost anything we put in print. For example, glance down at your bulletin and you’ll see it towards the top of the page. Now I wasn’t serving here when it was developed, but kudos to those who were a part of its creation because it really does an excellent job at communicating why COOS exists. We are here to grow a community in Christ and to share Christ’s love with the world. Everything else we do, gather for worship, give food from our food pantry, listen to beautiful music, meet and enjoy friends - all of that flows out from our mission statement.

But, as you know, we aren’t the only church to have one. Mission statements came into vogue back in the mid 1980’s and since that time businesses, churches, non-profits, even some families have adopted one. But that’s not to say that they didn’t exist before then. In our reading from the gospel of Luke, Jesus lays out his own mission statement in his first act of public ministry. Following his river baptism and wilderness fast and temptation, Jesus returns to his home country, Galilee. Reports about him have been spreading throughout the land. So when he comes back to Nazareth, you can imagine that it’s quite a big day in the synagogue. Everyone is excited to hear the local boy who’s making such a name for himself. Naturally, he’s given the honor of doing the reading as he’s handed the scroll of the prophet Isaiah. Now remember, there’s no lectionary to consult. There’s nothing to say which part of Isaiah should be read. The choice is entirely up to him. So Jesus unrolls the scroll, scans for just the right text, and finds it near the end. The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor. Now those words were not new. They weren’t even unfamiliar. Likely everyone gathered had heard them before on multiple occasions. But it’s what happens next that transforms them.

Following the reading, Jesus sits down and then does the unexpected, the unimaginable, really. He takes the ancient words from the prophet Isaiah and claims them as his own in real time. Today, he says, this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing. This is Jesus’ mission statement. The whole purpose for his being, the reason he came to this earth is to bring good news to the poor, release to the captives, sight to the blind, freedom to the oppressed, and announce the Jubilee Year when God’s justice will reshape society. From here on out everything that Jesus says and does flows from this prophecy, this mission statement…this good news. 

Good News, that is to those who identify as poor or captive or blind or oppressed. But to those who don’t see themselves as fitting into one of those categories, to those who are doing pretty much ok as is, the ones who may even benefit from the status quo, Jesus’ mission statement doesn't sound like good news at all. It sounds more like a threat. In fact, just a few moments later in the story, beyond our reading today, many of those in the synagogue end up getting so offended by Jesus’ words, particularly when he highlights that this good news is not just for a special few, but for everyone, that they run him out of town and seek to throw him off a cliff.  

They react this way because these folks really get it. Jesus isn’t meek and mild. He’s on a mission - a radical mission to shake things up. To turn things upside down. To change the world as we know it. Which can initially sound like pretty bad news to those of us who are doing relatively well in the world as it currently exists until Jesus addresses our blindness and helps us to see that we can’t really live and thrive until all of God’s beloved are able to live and thrive too. Although the attempt on his life failed on that particular day in Nazareth, the way that Jesus relentlessly challenges the status quo by healing the “undeserving” sick, forgiving the “really bad” sinners, and valuing those whom society deems as worthless, eventually this type of behavior becomes so intolerable that he is put to death in hopes that this mission will die with him.

But, of course, that was not to be so. Jesus rises, alive from the dead and continues today to do what he talked about in that synagogue long ago. But the way that he works is through his mystical body, the Church, as we heard about in our reading from 1 Corinthians. When reflecting upon how we, the Church, literally embodies Jesus in our world, St. Theresa of Avila puts it best:

 Christ has no body but yours,

No hands, no feet on earth but yours,

Yours are the eyes with which He looks compassion on this world,

Yours are the feet with which He walks to do good,

Yours are the hands, with which He blesses all the world.

Yours are the hands, yours are the feet,

Yours are the eyes, you are His body.

Being Christ’s body in the world is quite a weighty responsibility, but we don’t do it on our own. We can’t do it on our own. And neither could Jesus. Even he needed to be empowered by God’s Holy Spirit. His whole mission begins there with, The Spirit of the Lord is upon me. With those words Jesus recognizes that his mission depends on the working of God’s Spirit through him. Today, as Christ’s body the Spirit of the Lord is upon us and we depend on the Holy Spirit to guide us and grace us and gift us so that we might do the work that we are given to do.

So as you make plans for this coming week keep in mind this mission that you share with Christ. Be open to the empowering work of the Holy Spirit in your daily life. For yours are the eyes that Jesus will use to look with compassion on someone this week. Yours are the feet that he will walk in to do good in the world. Yours are the hands that he will use to touch and bless others with God’s love. Together we are Jesus’ body - so let us continue his mission as we grow a community in Christ and share Christ’s love with the world.

Ordinary people. January 16, 2022. The Rev. David M. Stoddart

 

John 2:1-11

The week after Christmas we had a full house. Both of my children were home, my son’s girlfriend joined us for part of the time, and some very dear friends, whom we have known for decades, stayed with us as well. We played a lot of games — in my case, I lost a lot of games; we joked; we ate Indian food; we hung out. It was all very normal — nothing exciting or spectacular happened — but as we gathered around the table to bless the food one night, I had a small epiphany, one of those “God moments” that I imagine all of us have occasionally, and I realized how holy it all was. That ordinary gathering of ordinary people was permeated with the presence of God and thus extraordinary at the same time. 

And that thought comes to mind as I reflect on this Gospel today. Jesus does many miraculous things in John’s Gospel, but John does not refer to them as miracles: he calls them signs, events which point us to the truth. Some of those signs are quite dramatic, like giving sight to a man born blind and raising Lazarus from the dead. But the very first sign, the one that sets the tone for the whole Gospel, takes place at this wedding in Cana. There is no debilitating illness here, no blindness, no tragedy. Running out of wine at a wedding feast would no doubt be a bummer and socially embarrassing, but it’s not a matter of life and death. This story, though, does establish something that is absolutely crucial for everything that follows. Jesus takes water and turns it into wine, and not just any wine, but the finest wine. He takes something that is ordinary — and there is nothing more ordinary than water — and transforms it into something extraordinary. Or maybe transformation isn’t the right term. Maybe this sign points us to the truth that nothing is ever just ordinary when seen in the light of Christ.

That certainly accords with our understanding of Incarnation. God Almighty enters into our world as a baby, a helpless infant born to a poor family in an obscure town. Outwardly, Jesus’s circumstances are nothing if not mundane, and yet at the same time he is Emmanu-el, “God with us.” And while we sing gorgeous music and don beautiful vestments to celebrate that fact, at the heart of our sacramental worship lie the most basic and ordinary materials: water and oil, bread and wine. But more important and more wondrous than that are the human materials God employs. Jesus forms a community with the most ordinary people. Paul insists in our second lesson today that within every ordinary believer lives the Holy Spirit, who gives to all of us — no exceptions — extraordinary gifts for ministry, manifestations of God for the common good. To believe in Jesus Christ is to realize that the whole of creation is infused with the presence of God, and that we ourselves are filled with that presence, with the very same Spirit that lives in Christ.

That’s awesome, but I think it is safe to say that we are well-defended against this truth. We resist it in multiple ways. We see that we are sinners, that as individuals we often fall short and miss the mark: we hurt others and we hurt ourselves by what we do and by what we fail to do. And then, looking beyond ourselves, we see all the injustice and suffering in our world, a staggering amount of pain that would seem to belie any notion of God’s abiding presence. But during his earthly ministry, Jesus lived in a world that was also rife with sin, suffering, and injustice, arguably worse than what we experience. And yet all his teaching, all his healing, all his signs point to the truth that God is love and God is with us, always. And just as he commissioned his first followers, a bunch of ordinary sinners, to share that astounding good news, so, too, he gives to us that same mission. It’s our calling to show the world that God is love and God is with us. We do that in many ways, including being kind and merciful people, forming loving communities of faith, caring for the sick, offering relief to the poor, standing up for racial justice, working for peace and reconciliation. But it all begins with our acceptance of this great truth: we have to see and believe that God can and does use ordinary people like you and me to reveal her presence and her power. 

We are sinners and we are channels of God’s Spirit; we are ordinary humans and we are Christ. And if that shocks us, then perhaps we need to be shocked. Symeon the New Theologian lived around the year 1,000 and is venerated as a mystic and saint in the Eastern Orthodox Church. He wrote a beautiful hymn that speaks to what I am trying to say. It reads like this:

We awaken in Christ’s body,

As Christ awakens our bodies

There I look down and my poor hand is Christ,

He enters my foot and is infinitely me.

I move my hand and wonderfully

My hand becomes Christ,

Becomes all of Him.

I move my foot and at once

He appears in a flash of lightning.

Do my words seem blasphemous to you?

—Then open your heart to him.

And let yourself receive the one

Who is opening to you so deeply.

For if we genuinely love Him,

We wake up inside Christ’s body

Where all our body all over,

Every most hidden part of it,

Is realized in joy as Him,

And He makes us utterly real.

And everything that is hurt, everything

That seemed to us dark, harsh, shameful,

Maimed, ugly, irreparably damaged

Is in Him transformed.

And in Him, recognized as whole, as lovely,

And radiant in His light,

We awaken as the beloved

In every last part of our body. 

We are living signs of Christ, his body in the world. In the most ordinary ways and in the most ordinary circumstances, we point to the extraordinary truth that God’s light fills our world  and God’s love permeates everything.

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.