That Baby is God – "In the Flesh"

Christmas Day

John 1:1-14

It was the day after Christmas at a church in San Francisco. The pastor of the church was looking over the Nativity scene when he noticed that the baby Jesus was missing from among the figures.

Immediately he turned, went outside, and saw a little boy with a red wagon.

In the wagon was the figure of the infant Jesus. So, he walked up to the boy and said, "Well, where did you get Him, my fine friend?"

The little boy replied, "I got Him from the church."

"And why did you take Him?"

The boy said, "Well, about a week before Christmas I prayed to the Lord Jesus and I told Him if He would bring me a red wagon for Christmas I would give Him a ride around the block in it.

We know what to do with a new-born baby. Babies require tender care. We wrap them up in much clothing. We change their diapers as often as needed – sometimes more, and occasionally, less. We rub skin softeners on them, and we take them to the doctor at the least little sign of discomfort. We protect them with all of our abilities – knowing that they are totally dependent on us – for nurture, for safety – and as they grow, for knowledge, opportunity, possibility.

But what do we do with this baby – this baby Jesus, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a cattle stall in a dusty little town on the edge of the desert? What do we do with God in the flesh – needy, fragile, as tenuous as life itself? How will we protect our God/child? How will we nurture the Son of God – The Eternal Word now flesh? He is so vulnerable. He is so small.

So many questions. Just last week, I read a discussion on a blog about the divinity of Christ. One of the writers was presenting a rather strong case that Jesus never claimed to be God. And virtually everyone else writing in this dialogue presented just as strong a case that Jesus was actually God in the flesh. This is a discussion that has gone on for centuries. You see, we have a hard time getting our minds around this idea – that God could become human – could take on the form of man, and live with skinned knees, an occasionally broken heart, human desires and human needs. We have a hard time getting our minds around God in the flesh.

Scripture paints a startling picture. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Christ was eternally a part of the Godhead – even before the foundation of the world. Christ participated in the formation of the world. Christ was a part of the guidance and development of God’s eternal plan for all of us who have walked this planet. And when the right time came, Christ became the central figure in the redemption of mankind, offering His life as a worthy sacrifice for our sins. And the scriptures go on to tell us that when time as we know it ends, Christ will rule the universe, sitting at the right hand of God for all of eternity.

Christ was begotten of God, but not from the beginning. Christ was begotten when He became a person – a human being – in the form of a baby. Much has been made of His parentage – of the lowly role of Joseph – of the exalted role of his mother, Mary – of the involvement of the Holy Spirit in His conception. There have been so many theories propagated – so many scandalous ideas developed and taught. But those ideas and those theories run smack into John’s gospel-word for us – “The Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.” It turns out – that baby in the manger is God – “in the flesh.”

I know the people in this room this morning. I know you – and for the most part, you aren’t struggling with whether Jesus is really God, or with questions about the mysterious miracle of the virgin birth and the incarnation of God. Your questions are more personal. You have questions birthed in the truth of John’s epistle when he says, “What was from the beginning, what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we beheld and our hands handled, concerning the Word of Life . . .” You have those kind of questions. They are personal questions. How will I handle the Christ? How will I protect this infant child – God in the flesh? How will I serve Him? What difference does His coming really make in my life – as I live it every day? Those are your questions. They are personal, and they are yours.

I could be wrong. Your questions this year might center around belief. You might find need in your life to do some personal study. You might need to delve into the scriptures and see what they have to say about the Christ. You might need to go back and read the early church fathers, or read the theologians of the reformation. You might need to start attending a Sunday School class and start asking questions about this baby who came to save the world. You might need to strengthen and affirm your belief in the Christ. If that is the case, you have not a moment to lose. This life is precious, and your system of faith – your beliefs – are not to be discounted, compromised, or conceded. Your personal system of faith support and belief is worthy of your best efforts, your time, and your energies.

Perhaps your care for Jesus will center around personal devotion this year. Did you catch any of the discussions – on the television and on the internet – about the number of churches that were canceling Christmas services, simply because the holiday came on a Sunday, and thus produced a perceived conflict between family, presents, and worship? I was rather astonished. I understand the motives behind some of this – even the more pure motives. Our churches are like our families – we have competing priorities. We have competition between work and play and worship, and sometimes it is difficult to balance all of these priorities. I understand that. But on this holy day, I have one question. Whose birthday are we celebrating? There is much time for family and presents and Christmas dinner – and there is much time for worship of our Lord.

This same struggle with competing priorities sometime enters into our devotional life. It can be difficult to balance our work, family, recreation, honey-dos, and all of the other things which creep into the ever increasing busyness of our lives. When that is the case, we do well to take notice that our first devotion is to the One who redeemed us from our sin, and who calls us to a life which is “set apart.” That may be your focus for this year, caring for this God who became a baby. You may need to schedule a personal time each day when you devote yourself to God. You may want to remind yourself with every breath of your days that it is Christ who dwells in you. You may want to commit yourself to offering your personal acts of devotion to this Christ who came into this world that we might have life.

Your questions of care for this Christ in the manger may be focused on your service. We best serve Christ by serving others. I am always impressed with the variety of ways you choose to attempt to serve others. Then some of you spread yourselves thin, trying to serve. This congregation of servants has a heart for people who are less fortunate than we are. You may choose to be more intentional about how you serve people who are truly in need. You may choose to join others in efforts which are larger than your own efforts.

And then again, your focus in serving and caring for this baby in the manger may be on your witness. I need to tell you a funny story. Wednesday night, I set my alarm so as to get me up a little early on Thursday. I thought I might make a quick morning run through a field or two, and perhaps harvest a pheasant. On Thursday, the alarm went off, and I rolled over to go back to bed. Later in the day, Gary Shields called to see if I wanted to hunt Friday morning. I declined – this sermon was not yet really conceived, much less finished, and I knew that I had company coming into town, and so, I declined. Well, on Friday afternoon, I called Gary to see how his hunt went Friday. His alarm went off, and he rolled back over to sleep some more. We laughed about the need to invite a friend – the friend coming to your house means that you better get up and get ready. Gary said, “Yeah, you know how serious you are about hunting when you invite a friend to go along.”

I told him I was going to steal his line for this sermon. It’s the same with our faith. You can tell how serious we are about our faith by whether we invite any friends to go along. I’m not talking just about church, although that’s a pretty good start. We ought to invite our friends to church. We’re like that little boy with the wagon, who said, "I got Him from the church." Most of us were first introduced to this baby who is God in the flesh when we were at church. But more than inviting someone to go to church, we need to be inviting people to meet Jesus. He’s changed our lives, and He’ll change their lives, as well.

Well, I’ve been a little preachy this Christmas day. I want to close with a poem I read this week. You know, two months ago, I met with four other pastors in a little town in Kansas to think about our sermons for Advent and Christmas. We may do the same thing leading up to Easter. Anyway, Steve Graham brought along copies of some poems that Eugene Peterson wrote some time back. I share with you this morning “The Cradle.”

For us who have only known approximate fathers
And mothers manqué, this child is a surprise:
A sudden coming true of all we hoped
Might happen. Hoarded hopes fed by prophecies,

Old sermons and song fragments, now cry
Coo and gurgle in the cradle, a babbling
Proto-language which as soon as it gets
A tongue (and we, of course, grow open ears)

Will say the big nouns: joy, glory, peace;
And live the best verbs: love, forgive, save.
Along with the swaddling clothes the words are washed

Of every soiling sentiment, scrubbed clean of
All failed promises, then hung in the world’s
Backyard dazzling white, billowing gospel.[1]

That baby in the manger is God – “in the flesh.” Let’s care for Him, as if He were our very own.

Richard W. Dunn, PhD.

[1] Eugene Peterson, The Contemplative Pastor, Eerdmans, 1989, p. 164..

The Gift

Christmas Eve

Luke 2:1-20

It wasn’t what they expected. They had traveled quite a distance – from Nazareth to Bethlehem – and they expected to be able to find a place to stay – with relatives, perhaps, but certainly in one of the small inns in town. But there wasn’t any place – as the song goes, “No room. No room.”

We don’t know if it was a barn, or a lean-to, or a cave, or maybe a combination of all of that, but we know that Jesus was born in less than ideal circumstances. He was born in a manger - a cattle stall. We don’t know if the owner of the inn offered it, or if Joseph just found some place for Mary to get out of the night-time elements – but it was out of the way, and it was better than having the baby out in the street. Whatever the case, it wasn’t what they expected.
It wasn’t what they expected – those Israeli shepherds. Young boys, mostly. Just another Palestinian night, out on the hillside, tending the flocks. Quiet. Except for the occasional bleating when a coyote howled, it was dark and quiet. They certainly didn’t expect angels. They didn’t expect that . . .

First one angel – then a thousand. Prophecy fulfilled and announced, and then they were gone. Where did they say we could find him? In Bethlehem? Should we go? Should we leave the flock? But we have to see this thing – my, what a night!!

It wasn’t what they expected – certainly after such a grand announcement. Lowly shepherds find the baby, and his parents, just like they had been told. But look at these surroundings. Couldn’t they have found something better? Why would angels sing about a baby born in a cattle stall? What does all this mean? It wasn’t what they expected.

32 years ago tonight. I was Ben’s age. It was my senior year of High School. Our family went to services at our church early in the evening. It was your typical Baptist service. We’re not too good with listening for holy things – lots of chatting before the service – especially in the youth section – and then we all slapped backs and guessed at what we would find under the tree the next morning. Just your typical service – about what I expected – except for it was my last Christmas Eve service at my home church.

After the family returned home, I left around 10:30 to attend services at the Lutheran church with my girlfriend. It wasn’t what I expected. She met me at the door, but she was singing with the choir, and so I entered and sat alone – not really sure how these Lutherans would do church. It was quiet. There were enough people to be having some conversations, but they were sitting still – listening, waiting. The service was beautiful, and then we lit candles, and left silently. So much reverence. So much holiness. It wasn’t what I expected.

It wasn’t what I expected when I turned the last corner toward my house there on South Houston Road, and I could see the flames. Just two streets over from my house. I actually followed one of the fire trucks to the house. Firemen were already dousing the house, and the second call had been answered. The house was totally engulfed in flames – nothing would be saved.

I watched as the family who lived in the house arrived home, minutes later. The mother actually passed out in the yard – neighbors holding back the children, trying to comfort them. The tree caught fire – wouldn’t you know it. The symbol of the gift had brought this most unexpected and unwelcome turn of events – I felt a sick feeling in my stomach – this was about to ruin my own Christmas, I thought.

And then it happened – it wasn’t what I expected. From across the street she came, in her pajamas and robe. She couldn’t have been older than 5. She found her friend – the youngest of the family whose home was now collapsing, and she handed her one of her own Christmas presents from under her own tree. A gift – one bought for her – to be given to her – now given to her friend. She gave me a gift that night - my Christmas for that year and for the rest of my years was redeemed. It wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t what I expected.

“For unto us a child is born, to us a son is given . . . and his name will be called ‘Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.’”

He wasn’t what we expected. Our friend Peterson puts it well.

Half-sick with excitement and under garish lights
I do it again, year after year after year.
I can’t wait to plunder the boxes, then show
And tell my friends: Look what I got!

I rip the tissues from every gift but find
That all the labels have lied. Stones.
And my heart a stone. “Dead in trespasses
And sin.” The lights go out. Later my eyes,

Accustomed to the dark, see wrapped
In Christ-foil and ribboned in Spirit-colors

The multi-named messiah, love labels
On a faith shape, every name a promise

And every promise a present, made and named
All in the same breath. I accept.[1]

He wasn’t what we expected. We expected a Messiah – coming to conquer all that conquers us. We expected glory. We expected majesty. We expected power. Maybe we even expected that we would be given power over that which overpowers us. Instead, He gave us a gift. We open the gift, wrapped in Christ-foil and ribboned in Spirit colors – in the package is the gift – faith - shaped like a child.

I do not know what shape our faith will take this year, but I do know that in each of our hearts – in each of our lives – for faith to be faith, it must take some shape. You may find faith that shapes your physical health. You may find faith which shapes your service to this church, or to our community. You might find faith that takes shape in the political arena, or maybe in the soup kitchen.

It might even take on a new shape in your family. Your faith might have to sustain you in a new role in your family. Your faith might have to find strength that you don’t yet know you can access.

Your faith might take the shape of new ventures. You may step into new opportunities of service to others who are considerably less fortunate than you. You might take a mission trip – across the country, or across your street.

But I do know this – for faith to be faith, it must take some shape. God has given us a gift this Christmas – really for all of our Christmases. God has given us the gift of faith, and we express that faith – by making our trip to Bethlehem, by listening to and heeding the angels who sing to us “Glory to God in the highest,” and by taking the gift which has been given to us across the street to that little girl or boy whose world has collapsed before their eyes.

God has given us a gift – a gift of faith – and we share that gift with others. What shape will your faith take this Christmas – this year?

Richard W. Dunn, PhD.

[1] Eugene Peterson, The Contemplative Pastor, Eerdmans, 1989, p. 170.

Vulnerable Faith

4th Sunday of Advent

Luke 1:26-38, 47-55

I asked Shelby to read one of the passages this morning, because I figure Mary was no older than 14 or 15 when she received the news that she was going to be the Mother of God – in the flesh. You noticed that Shelby may have been a little nervous – well, you’ve been where she was this morning.

Now, I need you to place yourself in Mary’s position this morning. I need you to imagine that you are a rather obedient Jewish girl, living in a country occupied by a great and mighty power, that you are already “engaged” to a man that may be twice your age – really just a little younger than your parents, and that you are confronted with an angel of God – Gabriel, no less – who announces that you are going to be with child, and that the child will be called the “Son of God.” Can you do it – can you imagine yourself in her sandals that day?

Much has been made over the centuries about God’s choice of Mary. Apart from what the scriptures tell us, we don’t know what kind of girl she was – what kinds of hopes and dreams she had. She was so young. There was so much that she couldn’t know. She was naïve, and maybe that worked in her favor (so to speak) when God chose her. We don’t know. There is so very much we don’t know.

We can suppose quite a lot – I mean, what does a 14 year old girl really know. Oh, I understand that they think they know quite a bit – don’t most teenagers – but the older I get, the more I realize how very little I know, and how very little those who are so very young really know. It’s not a slap on their mentality, or their abilities – they simply don’t have the experience yet, so they can’t possibly know.

I started thinking about this sermon nearly two months ago, when I gathered with some pastor friends in Kansas to talk about our Advent sermons. As they talked, I did a lot of listening – to them as well as to the scripture – and I became most impressed with how vulnerable Mary was – 14 or 15 years old, living in her parents home, not terribly savvy in the ways of the world, or of her faith. As a Jewish girl, she was not privileged to go to synagogue, as were the boys. So anything she had garnered about theological matters, she had picked up from her parents and from her girlfriends. She was about the bottom rung on the ladder in that society, and she was terribly vulnerable.

I have a suspicion that God knew that, and that there may have been something special about Mary and her vulnerability. I have a suspicion that her heart may have been more tender and compliant, while at the same time more confident and committed to that which she had been taught over the years – little though it was. I have a suspicion.

God needed a heart like that to watch over Jesus. Mary was vulnerable – certainly to the world. But I suspect the thing that made her special was her vulnerability to God. He needed someone like that.

I watch with great amazement people in our society these days who purport to be Christian. Too much of the time, their presentation of Christianity comes across as gross arrogance – an attitude that says, “I’ve got it figured out, and no one can convince me otherwise.” I see too much of that mindset in the world of Christendom these days.

My friend, Tim Youmans, wrote a song that I heard for the first time this week. Let me read the words to you. The title is “It’s Still Beautiful.

”Give me some ancient form, something a little bit worn,

With smoothed down edges that cut to the quick of my soul.

Give me a God to bear, like the little girl who was scared,

Who heard from angel, “Mary, you’re his favorite one.

”Under most advent wreaths, there are four secrets waiting beneath

One for the ruin and three you would never share.

Yet, God is so good for me, like mystical therapy,

It hurts just a little, but nothing good is ever free.

Hope, peace, joy, and love will find you

Mixed in with the layers that bind you

(Pain has way of clarifying everything).

From Christmas day to Epiphany

There are moments when you sometimes see

Your faith, in all its ambiguity, is still beautiful.

Second Naiveté, accepting some hypocrisy--

All the deconstruction gets slowly set aside.

The need to rebuild gets overcome

By a little bit of serious fun

That God enjoyed you enough, to become one of us. [1]

His song caught my attention because he spoke about Mary in that first paragraph. Did you hear it – “like the little girl who was scared?” Vulnerability means that sometimes we might be scared by the things that we might get into on account of our faith. Then listen to the chorus again – that last sentence. “From Christmas day to Epiphany there are moments when you sometimes see your faith in all its ambiguity, is still beautiful.”

I’ve watched my friend, Tim, over four or five years, but I have really gotten to know him better this last year. One of the things that I like most about him is his transparency. Tim is so transparent, so vulnerable, that he sometimes gets into trouble with his parishioners. It’s an obvious transparency – kind of a vulnerability to the situation. Last summer, he came over here at my request, and played the role of Jesus during our Bible School. He was great – you know, children see through so much of the façade that we adults construct. They were captured by his transparency, and I’ve never seen children take to someone so quickly. He offered to do something as a part of the “upper room/Lord’s Supper” experience we had in the basement. Rather casually, he got up from the table, and went to each of the children, washing their feet that night. Our boys had been being rather typical boys, and our girls didn’t know what to do with all of this, but as that experience unfolded, a quietness – maybe even a holiness – came over that room that night. And I noticed that the children started putting down their hurriedly built façade’s, and a new found vulnerability started showing.

I like what he says about the ambiguity of our faith. You know, sometimes my faith isn’t as strong as I would like it to be. Sometimes my faith is a little ambiguous. Sometimes I find that my heart and my mind conflict, or that my schooling and my experience clash – and in those moments, my faith feels shaky, ambiguous, vulnerable.

One last idea from his song. It comes from the last verse – He says, “Second Naiveté, accepting some hypocrisy -- all the deconstruction gets slowly set aside. The need to rebuild gets overcome by a little bit of serious fun - that God enjoyed you enough, to become one of us.” Sometimes, we take our faith so seriously that it becomes ineffective for the purpose faith serves in our lives. We construct, and build, and develop our faith to the point that we begin to masquerade and rant and project a faith that isn’t real. And sometimes, by the grace of God, God begins a process of deconstruction in our “faith lives” which brings us back to a point of usability – Tim calls it as a “second naiveté” - not taking our faith so seriously that we can’t actually live by faith.

When I first started thinking about this sermon, I was rather focused on Mary’s vulnerability. But early in the week, it occurred to me that God was the One who was really vulnerable in this story. God was the One who enjoyed us enough to “become one of us.” I like that idea – I like the idea that God experienced the kind of vulnerable faith that we experience when Jesus became one of us. Jesus – struggling with the decision to obey his parents, or stay in Jerusalem, arguing with the teachers in the temple. Jesus – not being really sure if the time was ripe to leave his mother, take off on His own, and begin His ministry. Jesus – not being sure whether He should really ask Judas to be one of His disciples. Jesus – wondering about how far to push the Pharisees and the Sadducees, all while living in Roman occupied Galilee. Jesus – struggling to the point of sweating blood, as to whether He wanted to do what God was asking Him to do, or what His human mind was screaming out for Him to do. Yeah, God became vulnerable when He was born as a helpless child in that cattle stall 2000 years ago, and in the realm of relationships, God is still vulnerable to us when He asks us to reciprocate by being vulnerable to Him.

That’s where we are, this Christmas. I asked you a while ago to put yourself in Mary’s shoes. Have you been able to do that? Have you been able to think about the kind of vulnerability that is required in order to find real intimacy with God? The “watch word” for the last Sunday in Advent is “love.” You and I hear a lot about love, but the Christian has one up on the rest of society – we have seen the vulnerability of God in giving Jesus to us, and we understand the vulnerability that God asks of us in our relationship with God.

I want you to do one other exercise with me this morning. I want you to close your eyes for a couple of minutes, and make yourself as vulnerable as possible to Almighty God. Could those words from Gabriel be for us? “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you.” What if that kind of vulnerability on our part produced a deeper, renewed relationship with God in your life this Christmas? What would happen in your life if you opened your life up to the work of God in you? How might you serve God? How might you serve others as a means of serving God? Fredrick Buechner said that “vocation is where your deep gladness meets the world’s deepest need. Is it possible that this Christmas, we might make ourselves vulnerable to God in such a way that a deep gladness changes the way we live and think and serve, and that we might actually encounter our world at the point of its deepest need?

Open your life to God this day. Give God the kind of opportunity in your life that Mary gave to God. Then watch what God is able to do with your vulnerability.

Richard W. Dunn, PhD.

[1] Tim Youmans, “It’s Still Beautiful,” song, found at http://www.garageband.com/song?pe1S8LTM0LdsaSkaVGxYWg

to bring good news . . .

3rd Sunday of Advent

Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11; John 1:6-8, 19-28

Have you ever listened to an argument and not only understood all the points of view, but rather agreed with all of them? I’ve been listening to this debate – you know, this debate as to whether people ought to say “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays,” and I’ve formed an opinion – I think they’re all right – well, except the ones on the far fringes that think that anyone who doesn’t agree with their opinion is “worthy of death.”

I mean, I agree with those who think we should be tolerant enough of other faiths that we acknowledge and even accommodate our Jewish and Muslim friends during this time of celebration. And I understand and agree with my Christian brothers and sisters who think that this celebration of Christ’s birth is worthy of our full attention, and a well placed “Merry Christmas” never really hurt anyone. And I certainly understand and agree with most people who find this a silly thing to argue about when there are so many important things that we could be arguing about this time of the year – like, “who will win the Rose Bowl.”

Seriously, I learned a long time ago that the meaning of this season of the year suggests that we seek to do what Jesus would do, and acknowledge our neighbor above ourselves. This actually was one of the most important lessons taught to me by my parents and the Jewish neighbors across the street from us during my teen years, Dr. and Mrs. Shapiro. Dr. Ed and Ruth would bring Christmas gifts over to us, and wish us a hearty “Merry Christmas,” and we would return a fruit basket to their home, and wish them a Joyous Chanukah” – each party acknowledging the other’s faith tradition. We knew that acknowledging their personal faith did not in any way diminish our own faith practice, nor was it an indicator of our sincerity as Christian people.

That having been said, I take notice that we encounter John the Baptist for the second week in a row, and I have to wonder, “Are the lectionary writers trying to remind us of something?” Could it be that they are reminding Christian people that the most important part of the gospel message is the proclamation of that message?

I’m not just picking at nits this morning. No, there’s scripture to back up my point. The psalmist makes reference to the return of captives, whose “mouth was filled with laughter, and tongues with joyful shouting.” He goes on to say that those who “sow in tears shall reap with joyful shouting.” Some among the Christian community would re-write that verse to say that those “sow with tears shall reap with joy,” but they would leave off the most important part of the joy – the “shouting” – the “proclamation.”

The Old Testament lesson comes from Isaiah, who proclaims that “the Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to bring good news; He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to captives, and freedom to prisoners.” There is a message to be brought. There is a message to be proclaimed. We don’t just experience the joy of the season – we are to proclaim that joy!!

Just a couple of weeks ago, I sang again with the Enid Symphonic Choir as we presented the annual Christmas music. I’ve done this four years now, and I’ve learned much of the music we perform. You can count on Doug Newell to remind us when we sing “Joy to the World” that we are proclaiming joy to the world, and that our faces, our voices, our entire countenances ought to reflect that joy. He describes it as an explosion of joy.

You noticed that today we lit the pink candle. This is the Sunday in Advent known as Gaudette Sunday. It refers to the theme of rejoicing found in the readings, such as Philippians, Rejoice in the Lord always, again I will say, Rejoice. And also from the prophet Zephaniah, Sing aloud, O daughter Zion; shout O Israel! Rejoice and exult.

And we do rejoice. But we do so very much more than rejoice. We announce our rejoicing. We proclaim our rejoicing. Like the prophet, we are anointed people, because the Spirit is upon us, and we “bring good news.” We can’t do it with silent voices. We take issue with those who claim that our beliefs are a private matter, and that we don’t tell others about our beliefs because we don’t want to offend. Let me ask you – are you offended when a Jewish person or a Muslim person speaks to you about their faith? I’m not. I’m not in the least. Their faith practice doesn’t offend me. In fact, their expression of their faith causes me to want to express my faith all the more. Why should we feel bad about expressing our faith? To be certain, there’s a difference between expressing our faith and trying to force our faith on someone else - or even worse, trying to coerce someone else into an expression of faith. That is not what Christian people do. But neither do we timidly hide our faith. That which we know to be true – that which we believe to be true – we proclaim.

Just what are we to proclaim? There is so very much to say. There is so very much to tell. I am astonished by the variety contained in our proclamation. Back to Isaiah – listen to just a few things. We are to bring (1) good news. We are to (2) bind up brokenhearted people. You and I know a lot of brokenhearted people this time of the year. We are to (3) proclaim liberty to captives and freedom to prisoners. We know a lot of those people, too. We are to (4) proclaim the favorable year of the Lord. We are to (5) proclaim the day of vengeance of our God.

If we step over to the epistle for today, we are reminded that we are to (6) rejoice always, that (7) we have the opportunity to pray without ceasing, and that we are to (8) give thanks for everything. And should we return to the Psalm, we can be reminded that (9) the Lord has done great things for us.

And then we could spend a great deal of time back in the Isaiah passage, being reminded of our (10) garments of salvation, and our (11) robes of righteousness. We have so very much to proclaim. Frankly, were we to ask for testimonies this morning, we would go on and on with the blessings of God for which we are all truly thankful.

We take notice just who our audience is. We notice that we are to proclaim this news to afflicted, brokenhearted, captive prisoners. I saw a report on CNN on Friday about the man out of Atlanta who was falsely imprisoned 24 years ago for rape. I say falsely, because DNA testing proved just this month that the man was not guilty of the crime. The part of this story I want to comment on is the reaction of the man. They were interviewing him outside the courthouse as he was being released, and the reporters were asking him if he was bitter or angry or anything of the sort, and he replied, “No, I’m not angry. I’m just so very happy to be back with my family.” He didn’t have to say a word, really. You could see the joy all over his face. He was ecstatic. He couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear. His release had been proclaimed, and he was experiencing the joy of his freedom from captivity.

We’ve heard these stories – we’ve even experienced the joy of being released from some personal captivity. But the message of God’s redemption is broader than that. Some years ago, I was learning something about sharing my faith by attending some particular class on evangelism. The person leading the class made an important statement to me that has stuck with me – partly because I understand the truth of what he was trying to say, and partly because I understand our seriously convoluted his point was. He said, “When you are trying to help someone find salvation, first, you have to get them lost.” His point was well taken – why would anyone accept the salvation offered by Christ unless they felt they seriously needed it? His point was that a part of the process of helping someone come to salvation was helping them to realize the tragedy of their situation. Here’s where I differed with him on his point – I’ve met so very few people who seriously thought that they weren’t in need of Christ’s salvation. For most of us, it’s not a long step to realize that we are in need. When we honestly evaluate our lives, we realize that we need something, and the good news – the gospel – is that Jesus is that something - rather that Someone – that we need.

I’ll tell you something. My friend, Robert Capon, says that Jesus came to save the least, the lost, the last – the real losers of the world. I want you to look around the room this morning. We might look like we have it together – like we’re reasonably successful – but the people you’re looking at in this room this morning are the least, the lost, the last. And as you make your way from store to store, from party to party over the coming weeks, you will encounter more of the same – people who are the least, the lost, the last.

I want us to do something as an exercise in reality this morning. I want you to look on the back of your bulletin with me – the scriptures are there, and I want you to look at the gospel – the first three verses of the gospel lesson. And I want you to change the names that are there, and the pronoun if you have to – so, in my case, it will read, “There came a man, sent from God, whose name was Richard. He came for a witness, that he might bear witness of the light, that all might believe through him. Richard was not the light, but came that he might bear witness of the light.” And for Leslee, it will read, “There came a woman, sent from God whose name was Leslee. She came for a witness that she might bear witness of the light, that all might believe through her. Leslee was not the light, but came that she might bear witness of the light.” And for Mike and Mary and John and the other Mikes and the other Mary’s – the message is the same. We came to bear witness to the light.

And His name is Jesus.

Richard W. Dunn, PhD.

The Paradox of Peace - Surely we can do better than this!

2nd Sunday of Advent

Isaiah 40:1-11; Psalm 85:1-2, 8-13; 2nd Peter 3:3-15a; Mark 1:1-8

Paradox – it’s really the only word that describes the strangeness with which we approach this second week of Advent. The theme is peace – the second in a series of great words of the Christian vocabulary which describe our promise in Christ. Peace – in the experience of Advent, Peace comes after Hope, and before Joy.

So it is nothing short of paradox that in our quest for peace – in our yearning for peace in our collective and individual experiences – that we run headlong this day into the prophet, John the Baptizer. His persona is painted for us in verse 6 of the gospel text – “Now John was clothed with camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey.” He neither looks nor sounds peaceful. Listen to his message as described in verse 4 – “John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” Here were his actual words – and listen to the tone of his message – “The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals. I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.” And people responded to this message – “People from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him, and were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins.”

The entire scene looks anything but peaceful. It looks like its a million miles away from a baby in a cattle stall. Is this what we are looking for? What does this scene have to do with peace?

It is one of the great paradoxes of the Christian faith that we move through this uncertain land of Advent on our way toward Christmas by encountering this wild haired prophet. His message cuts like a knife to those of us who are yearning for peace. Repentance. In the midst of our search for peace, the prophet has the audacity to tell us that the road to peace leads past the altar of repentance.

To be sure, the landscape of the scriptures sometimes leaves us wondering – listen to the Psalmist, who says, “Lord, you were favorable to your land; you restored the fortunes of Jacob. You forgave the iniquity of your people; you pardoned all their sin.” The morally lazy among us say, “Well, good. Now that’s done with I can concentrate on finding this peace that Jesus promises.” Or they say, “Forgiven, huh? Well, I guess I don’t need to worry about my sin now.” Read on, pilgrim. There’s another side to this saga – “Let me hear what God the Lord will speak, for he will speak peace to his people, to his faithful, to those who turn to him in their hearts. Surely his salvation is at hand for those who fear him.”

“Pastor, that sounds an awfully lot like a works theology. I thought I’d heard you say before that there’s nothing we can do to merit our salvation? Are you saying now that our works are really our confessions? That we have to confess to receive salvation?”

Over the years, I’ve examined a multitude of metaphors to describe the interplay between us and God – the responsibility factor, if you will. Every metaphor breaks down at some point – but I’ve come to most appreciate the metaphor of the drowning man. That man finds himself in water over his head, swimming with all his might, but is losing strength, and subsequently losing all hope. There is nothing peaceful about his situation. Then along comes the life boat, and the captain of the boat throws over a life preserver – a means of salvation, so to speak. Here is the question to answer – does the act of throwing the life preserver toward the drowning man assure salvation? The rather obvious answer is “no” – the man must do something – he must reach out and take hold of that transport in order to find his salvation. For me, this metaphor speaks to merit – he has not done anything particular to merit his salvation, and in no way can you describe his act of reaching out and taking hold of that life preserver as meritorious. It is a response – a reasonable, but required response to an act of grace and redemption on the part of the life boat captain.

Our situation is much the same – we respond to the gracious act of salvation offered us by God through Jesus Christ – but our response is not to be considered meritorious. It is an act – a willful act on our part – that continues to make possible our salvation.

We can refuse to take hold of God’s salvation. Many do. Many encounter the salvation that is offered them, and they choose to spurn God. They spurn God’s initial offering of life, they spurn God’s insistence that we live life according to God’s plan, they spurn God’s assertion that we have violated the relationship we were offered, and they spurn any notion that we are not captains of our own destiny, and have the capacity to find our own safe harbor of salvation.

You noticed that I subtitled my sermon this week. I don’t usually do that, but something I noticed during the latter stages of study led me to add this subtitle – “Surely we can do better than this!” Here’s where I want to head with this – look around you. By any casual examination of humankind’s care of our little corner of the universe, we’re not doing a very good job. Watch the nightly news – years ago in Houston, I used to refer to it as the nightly “murder report.” They would take no less than 10 minutes each and every evening keeping us up to date with the 4 or 5 new murders committed in the last 24 hours. It was continually sobering. So much to fear in the news, isn’t there. Bird flu, natural disasters, economic catastrophes - not to mention war, rumors of war, epidemics, political wranglings, social missteps, community hi-jinx, ad-infinitum, ad-nauseum – these are the stories of our care for this world and its inhabitants. If you’re like me, you lean toward your television set each night as the newscaster offers that “human interest story” that reminds us that we can do better – but his acquiescence hardly balances the 25 minutes that preceded it. Bottom line – for the most part, we aren’t doing such a great job with the world, and something less than that with our world’s inhabitants.

Where is the peace? I love the words of the Christmas hymn the choir sang this morning.

I heard the bells on Christmas day,
Their old familiar carols play.
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

That third verse causes us to sit up as though we’ve been having a bad dream:

And in despair I bowed my head:
There is no peace on earth I said.
For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

Where is the peace we seek? This has not been a peaceful year for many of us, beyond the nightly news. Too many of us have had personal tragedies come our way. We have buried fathers and mothers, friends and relatives. We have had to make plans to care for aging parents while we were still taking children to basketball games and Scouts. We have had job changes. We have struggled with relationship difficulties. Where is the peace? Surely we can do better than this?

John the Baptizer reminds us that the road to peace leads past the altar of repentance. In doing so, he reminds us that our Ebenezer of self-reliance falls woefully short when it comes to our salvation, and subsequently to the peace we so desperately seek. The road to peace leads past the altar of repentance.

Repentance. The very word causes us to step back with a gasp. Audacity calls for our repentance. But Audacity gives way to Reality, and Reality to Understanding.

Just what is repentance. In simplest terms, repentance is acknowledgement that we are headed in the wrong direction, followed by a reversal of direction. I was telling Dr. Pontious about my pastor during seminary years – when I was serving in Decatur. James Rutledge was a hard man to understand. We agreed on a number of things theologically, but he was a hard task master as a pastor – especially to a subordinate staff member. Anyway, he had an illustration of repentance that has stuck with me during the years simply because it was so visual. He would describe repentance by starting to plod across the podium at the front of the sanctuary, talking about his direction. And then, at the right moment, he would wheel on his right foot, turn in the opposite direction, and then plant that left foot with a thud that echoed under that ancient wood stage, as he began his march in the opposite direction. That example has stuck with me over the years. We turn from the direction we are heading, and reverse course. We don’t just back up – we turn and face in a new direction.

This Advent, what might that direction be? Earlier in the sermon, I described self-willed people who refuse to acknowledge their need for salvation and a Savior. There is another group of people who are equally in need – that group of people in this world who assume that their own righteousness will save them. That group of people who believe the story of Christ, understand that Christ has died for them, perhaps even have trusted Christ for salvation, but live as though their salvation depended on the accumulation of good works in their life. Their hearts and their minds are not in sync. American Christians are particularly bothered by this syndrome – our American values of hard work, independence, and self-sustenance bleed over into our understanding of Christianity. We assume that the scriptures teach that we are to rely on ourselves for everything, including our salvation. In that vein, we are mistaken. We work, and we work, and we seem always to come up short handed, saying to ourselves, “Surely we can do better than this?” Well, yes we can. We can trust Christ. We can trust Jesus for our salvation. We can find peace, but only after we confront the tyranny of our sin and our sinful nature, and then turn to Jesus for salvation.

I was somewhat pensive this week on the anniversary of Rosa Park’s action of civil disobedience. 50 years. 50 years since that stalwart soul, in her own search for peace in her life, took action by confronting the tyranny that controlled her life. She wanted peace, and she realized that she could find peace only through confrontation.

We learn from her example. This day, we find peace which is promised by kneeling in front of the altar of repentance. That is where we will find it. That is where we will find peace.

Richard W. Dunn, PhD.