Last week, I sat in on the adult education class and together we learned about an old religious sect called the Gnostics. The Gnostics were a loose collection of people with a wide variety of beliefs active around the time of Jesus and the early church formation. The Gnostics influenced the Early Church as it decided what it really did, and didn’t, believe.

Their belief, which they tried to impose upon Christianity, went something like this: the world we live in is a prison that traps our more pure spirit. Our true identity is not of this world. Ultimate salvation means to become less and less a part of creation, and more and more a part of the spirit world until finally we cast off our physical body and join the spirit realm.

The Church ultimately rejected the Gnostic view, remembering that God created the Heavens and the Earth, as we heard today, and that God called it ‘Good.’ And the church also remembered that besides caring for souls, Jesus also cared for bodies: he healed the sick, he appreciated food and wine, and even after suffering in the flesh, was resurrected into a body — not just a spirit that floats around.

So Christians rejected the Gnostics, although they still left their mark. This was a religious battle fought almost 2000 years ago, so you’d think it’d be over, but in fact, the battle rages on. Aisles and aisles of self help books try to convince you that simply believing the right words will save you from all bodily suffering. And many Christians show their Gnostic side when they recklessly abuse the earth’s environment with the excuse that ‘we’re getting off this rock eventually.’ Forgetting that this rock, which God called good, was never ours to abuse anyways.

After reflecting on today’s Gospel lesson, I have to think that the Gnostics would have really hated the practice of Baptism.

At first, they would be right on the same page with John the Baptist when he said that “I have baptized you with water; but Jesus will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.” The Gnostics would have thought, ‘yes, yes, finally get rid of this silly water business and bring on the Spirit.’

But when Jesus meets John, something almost embarrassing happens. Jesus, Son of God, Eternal Savior, God from God, True light from True light, places himself under the hands of a regular human (well, I don’t know if we can call John the Baptist a regular human, but he’s a mortal man, anyways…) and Jesus is baptized by John with water. Earthly, created… water.

And not just water in general, but Jesus was baptized in very specific water: the Jordan River. A particular body of water — a real place — that held more importance for God’s people than almost any other water on earth. The Hebrew scriptures are drenched with the waters of the Jordan River which marked the entry into the promised land.

And into that specific, created water Jesus was baptized. And through that water, the Holy Spirit claims Jesus and names him as God’s beloved son. The Spirit, by the way, appears as a dove — another one of God’s earthly creations.

At this point, any good Gnostic should be angry. At this important epiphany of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit — all this flesh and blood and water and even a bird get mixed in. All these earthly things that Gnostics considered bad.

But through these earthly signs, God’s voice, the same voice which hovered over the waters of creation and called forth life, gave a name and a mission to Jesus. “You are my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.”

And from that specific moment, from that specific place, Jesus begins his public ministry.

What sort of things might happen around our specific little font of water here? … What do we expect from Baptism in this place? … What do we expect of our own baptism?

It seems silly, really, (especially when we channel our inner Gnostic side,) that we, members of the worldwide church of Jesus Christ, believers in an Almighty God, and (here in a Lutheran Church,) saved by Grace alone, would still put out, week after week, year after year, our little bowl of water. Regular, created water, specific water. And we say, ‘here are the waters of our salvation.’

And around our little font of the Lutheran Church of the Good Shepherd, in Seminole, Florida, we are connected with Christians around the world who also gather around fonts of water of all sizes. And, as we did this morning, we pray and give thanks for baptism.

We give thanks for all the ways that the story of the Bible, and our story as people of faith is just soaked with water. We give thanks for the water that God hovered over in the very beginning. We give thanks for God saving Noah and his family through the waters of the flood. We give thanks for God leading Israel through the sea from slavery into freedom.

And throughout our Thanksgiving for Baptism prayer, we see God’s grace moving in two different directions.

In the one direction, we are drawn in to gather around the font. In this water we find ourselves a part of God’s creation. And we hear for ourselves God’s blessing, we are God’s children, we are Beloved, with us God is well pleased. Maybe we can even see a reflection of the chaos and murky waters of our lives which God hovers over, and from which God creates life and goodness. In this direction, God draws us in.

And, in the other direction, from the water, through this water, we are led out, and set free. Whatever things in your life hold you back, drag you down, those things are washed away in this water. And in their place, we are given a new way to live.

See the two directions? Baptism both saves us from this world, and also draws us into the goodness of this world.

This is water that connects us with this creation that Jesus entered into in order to redeem. To save, to make whole. Our own baptism draws attention to our own lives, our own selves, the names that God has given us, the gifts that God has given us. Our own vocation, our mission as children of God. Here. In our families, in our congregation. In our community.

But this is water that also connects us with the resurrection of Jesus. Water that washes away our sins, our shortcomings. Water that sets us free, gives us new clothes to wear, and gives us permission to live in the Kingdom of God.

The best way that I can understand it is like this: in baptism, and the ongoing remembrance and thankfulness for baptism, our font of water, our little lives — everywhere we go becomes holy ground. Because God has called creation good, because God so loved the world, we could, at any moment, be called like Moses to remove our shoes for we are standing on holy ground.

But we don’t worship the ground. We don’t worship the water. We don’t worship us. These things are not holy in and of themselves. These things are holy in their potential for God to create and renew life.

The ground we stand on is holy because of what God can do on it. The water of Baptism is holy because of what God creates out of it. We are holy people because of what God can do with us. Even when our lives are unclear and chaotic… that’s exactly the kind of water that God hovers over to call forth new life.

Because we aren’t Gnostics, we praise God for the gift of water. All water. This water. Water that sustains life on earth, and water that grants us new life in Christ. Water that drenches us with the Holy Spirit, and renews our lives with forgiveness, grace, and love. Amen.

The Wise Men are here. They may even be sitting next to you.

We know about the Wise Men from the Gospel of Matthew which we have just heard. In Matthew’s account of the birth of Jesus, we don’t hear about shepherds or animals; we hear about wise men from the East. ‘Wise Men’ is one translation of the word in Greek that you might have heard: Magi.

The Magi serve an important purpose in the story of the Gospel according to Matthew. Their arrival lines up with certain parts of the Hebrew scriptures. The Magi fulfill prophecy — in other words, they pass a kind of test for letting God’s people know that God is, indeed, up to something.

But isn’t it interesting that in order to fulfill the prophecy…in order to satisfy all that is good, and right, and proper… in order to sign off on this occasion with his own signature, the God of Israel uses these Magi characters… who are outsiders. They’re from another country; they are not Jewish. They themselves are not experts on the laws & prophets of Israel, and yet: they fulfill them.

Now, one of the traditional interpretations of this visit & worship from the Magi is to show that Jesus is for all peoples. Especially when the tradition identified the Magi as Kings — even tho the Gospel doesn’t actually call them kings, and doesn’t technically say whether there were exactly three of them — but the Three Kings tradition suggests that leaders from all nations, not just the Hebrews, are to worship Jesus as Messiah.

Which is true. If you think about it, the Gospel of Matthew begins with the Magi, Gentiles, coming to Jesus and the Gospel ends with the disciples of Jesus being sent out to the Gentiles, to all nations.

“Go therefore and make disciples of all nations…” (Matthew 28.19 NRSV)

But I think the Magi are more than just representatives, or stand-ins, for the nations of the world. I think the Magi show us into the very heart of the Gospel. The Magi lead us to Jesus, remind us to worship Jesus, and show us that some of the first folks to recognize Jesus were not religious experts nor religious authorities, but outsiders and newcomers.

The Magi — the wise people that find themselves bowing at the feet of Jesus — are newcomers.

I like that word, newcomer. It’s the best word I’ve found to describe the people that we encounter in church who are… new. I think it’s a little better than visitor, or guest, and a lot better than unchurched, or unsaved, or ‘the lost,’ which is what some Christian communities call people who aren’t part of their church.

The word ‘newcomer,’ on the other hand, doesn’t make any judgment about people — it doesn’t assume that they are inferior, or confused, or in need. It simply labels people by saying they haven’t been here for very long. It leaves open the possibility that, like the Magi, sometimes the people we could call ‘lost’ are the same ones who show us to Jesus.

The problem is that newcomers can make us feel anxious. They certainly made Herod feel anxious.

When the Magi arrive, they ask about a child born King of the Jews which makes Herod (appointed King of the Jews) frightened. These newcomers in Jerusalem have made Herod anxious.

And not just Herod, Matthew says all of Jerusalem was frightened with Herod. Newcomers bring anxiety to the whole system. You see any religious community…any church…any congregation — actually, any group of people at all — naturally wants to find a kind of equilibrium. Churches are made of people, and the people eventually find a way to balance each other out in the system. It happened in the world of Jesus, and it happens in our world.

And then newcomers show up, and it puts the system temporarily out of balance. We thought we knew who we were, but now there are new people here and we have to figure out what that means, and we have to resolve this imbalance.

When the Magi newcomers showed up in Jerusalem and started asking deep and important questions about the Messiah, it threw the religious system out of balance. In particular, it threw Herod out of balance. Remember that the Magi showed up asking about the child born King of the Jews while Herod went around calling himself King of the Jews. Herod wasn’t so much interested in what God was up to, he was interested in preserving this system that kept him at the top. And all the people in this religious system were anxious too: whether or not they particularly liked Herod, they knew that these Magi were questioning the balance of the whole system. And all of us get anxious about change. I know I do.

So what do we do with the anxiety that newcomers bring?

Well, we know what King Herod did.

Posed with the threat of losing his power, he suddenly took a great interest in the scriptures, and consulted his experts to find out just where a Messiah might come from. And when he found out Bethlehem was a good bet, he sent the Magi there to do a little reconnaissance work for him. When they failed to report back on which child might be the Messiah, Herod has all of Bethlehem’s children killed — except for Jesus, of course, whose family had escaped by then to Egypt.

Herod tried to take advantage of these newcomers by turning them into unwitting spies so that he could identify the threat to his power and eliminate it. His anxiety was so strong that he would stop at nothing, not even murder, to keep things the way they were.

Now, just to alleviate the fear that any newcomers here today might have — I don’t believe that any of the membership here at Good Shepherd is feeling especially murderous.

But, when anxiety works its way through any system, including our congregation, we also can make bad decisions. We also can miss what God is doing right in front of us.

It is no accident that throughout our churches, and in our homes, our manger scenes almost always include these strange men, newcomers, kneeling around the baby Jesus. Throughout his entire life, death, and resurrection, newcomers are at the heart of what Jesus is up to.

Jesus constantly finds himself outside the typical religious comfort zone, meeting and eating with people who, for a wide variety of reasons, are not part of the religious tradition, but people who still long to encounter Jesus, in the flesh. People who often recognize Jesus long before the religious insiders (as in, established church members) ever do.

If anything, the Magi remind us to pay attention when newcomers step into our church, or come into our lives. But I think it’s more than that…

In many churches the anxiety caused by newcomers leads the established membership to mostly ignore newcomers and the tension that they bring and eventually they go away. But more often, that anxiety is resolved by quickly and decisively putting newcomers thru a membership class and trying to make them just like us. But we miss out on something when we do that. We miss out on the gifts that newcomers bring, and the vital questions that they ask. Maybe God is trying to send us Magi…

When the Magi found the house where the holy family was staying, they immediately recognized Jesus. They were filled with joy. The Magi may not have shared much in common with Jesus: they didn’t know his family, they probably were unfamiliar with his religious traditions, but they were able to worship him. And they brought gifts to share.

When newcomers come into our congregational life, our goal is not necessarily to make them more like us…who knows, they may already be wise men and women like the Magi were wise. Our goal is to recognize and worship God with them. We can be open to the possibility that newcomers help us recognize what God is doing in new ways.

And ultimately, the heart of the Gospel is that God makes every one of us a newcomer. God forgives us and makes us new each and every day. God calls every one of us to be new: to grow in faith and, yes, wisdom. God loves us with grace so radical, that it makes us all newcomers.

Praise be to Christ, indeed.

One of my favorite family traditions growing up was the Christmas Day journey to my Uncle Dan & Aunt Sylvia’s house. It wasn’t because of presents, really, since most of that had already happened the night before. It wasn’t because I could even show off my presents from the night before, because my brother and I were always the only kids — the rest of the cousins were gone or grown up. I’m not actually sure why I loved it so much as a kid, but I know now that my most cherished memories of those trips to my Uncle Dan’s is that before eating, we always sang the Doxology. (You know… “Praise God from whom all blessings flow…”) My entire family, most whom I never heard sing, would lift their voices in praise.

Well, there is a lot of praising in today’s scriptures… in the Old Testament reading, in the psalm, in the New Testament reading, and in the Gospel.

Praises come as Jesus, still a baby, is brought to the temple in Jerusalem for a ritual presentation. Some of what is described in the Gospel was regular Jewish tradition, but the actual presentation of Jesus was a little unusual. It follows in the footsteps of Hannah presenting Samuel to the Lord in the Old Testament. Jesus is presented to the Lord, and because we know the story well, we understand that there is something very special about Jesus.

But there are others who already know, as well.

There’s a man named Simeon living in Jerusalem. He’s living in a kind of perpetual Advent, he believes that he will see the Messiah with his own eyes before he dies. And besides Simeon, there is a woman of God named Anna, 84 years of age. She does nothing but pray and pay attention to God — it’s her full time job. Each of them, upon beholding the infant Jesus know instantly that this is what they’ve been waiting for. Each of them can’t help but launch into praises to God… having spent their whole lives waiting, they’ll spend the rest of their lives praising.

Simeon sings:

“Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, [or, now, Lord, you let your servant go in peace] according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” (Luke 2.28–32 NRSV)

Even before Jesus could walk or talk, he had inspired hope — not just for his family, or his clan, and not just for the people of his Jewish faith — he had inspired hope for all the world; a light to the Gentiles and glory to the people of Israel.

All Simeon can do is praise God.

Likewise, Anna can only praise God at the sight of Jesus. And not only is Anna in tune with God, but she is in tune with other people around her: as she praises God, she speaks about the child Jesus to ‘all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.’ In other words, Anna shares and recognizes the hopes and dreams of others around her who are also waiting for God to break into the world to bring justice and mercy.

And all she can do is praise because she has found it in the baby Jesus.

It seems crazy to do all this praising over an infant who hasn’t actually done anything yet. When he was brought into the temple, I would bet that Jesus was either sleeping or crying. Like any baby at his age, Jesus would have needed others to do everything for him. And yet, I think we can understand it, too. There’s something about babies that makes us hopeful about the future and all the potential that lies in each person. And we certainly understand praise for the newborn Jesus — it’s the whole basis of our Christmas celebration. Maybe, in the newborn Jesus, each of us can find hope for being children of God.

But even though we sing, “praise God from whom all blessings flow,” it’s not always so easy to do so.

There’s always a let down after Christmas Eve, I think. As we all organize our receipts to return gifts that we didn’t want, and as I watch the kids on my block playing with new plastic toys that will all be broken by New Year’s… I get the feeling that it’s not always easy to praise God at the end of the year.

As the holidays wrap up, temporary family truces come to an end. Out of town relatives go back to being out of town. Bad habits come back, or maybe got worse over the holidays. Praising God might seem out of place on your New Year’s resolution list.

In fact, it may even feel inappropriate to praise God. Should we praise God even while children in our community go to bed hungry? While violence goes on around us? Should we praise God knowing that friends and loved ones are suffering from chronic diseases? Is it right to praise even when we feel out of touch with God?

Well, look at the praise going on in scripture today.

The psalm we read, Psalm 148, sings praises with just about everything. Joined in praise are all kinds of things living and non-living.

Mountains and all hills, fruit trees and all cedars!

Kings of the earth and all peoples,
princes and all rulers of the earth!

Joined in praise are not only nice things, but dangerous things, and repulsive things. Not only the sun, stars, and moon, but fire, hail, snow and frost, sea monsters and even creeping things.

The psalm suggests that all things belong to God, not just things that we like, or things that seem holy.

And remember that Anna was praising God for the redemption of the world, before anything visible had happened yet. She was telling all these folks who were nobly and desperately waiting for God to fix their broken world that she had placed all her trust in a defenseless baby. And still she praised.

And remember Simeon’s words, though full of praise, don’t exactly sound like good news either; he tells Mary:

“This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.” (Luke 2.34–35 NRSV)

I can’t imagine that’s news that any mother ever wanted to receive.

And yet, Simeon praises God.

And yet, we praise God. Like Anna & Simeon, we praise God even before all things are revealed. We praise God even though we still live in a world with difficulty and sadness. We may even praise God when we have a hard time meaning it.

We praise God because our hope goes beyond what we can see. We praise God because our hope is also in the sight of a newborn child who will join all of us as children of God.

As my family gathered around Christmas dinner this year, we sang the Doxology once again. We praised God even though this was the first Christmas since my Uncle Dan died. We missed hearing his voice in the song. But his voice was not missing from the praise, because Jesus, Child of God, is born. And he has gathered every voice, Jew & Gentile, Anna’s & Simeon’s, Dan’s, yours and mine in praise as children of God.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him all creatures here below;
Praise Him above ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.

From heav’n above to earth I come
to bear good news to ev’ry home!
Glad tidings of great joy I bring
to all the world, and gladly sing:

Those are the words of a beautiful Christmas hymn now some 500 years old. There are 13 more stanzas, too, but I’ll spare you from most of them. The hymn begins with the voice of the angel that told this Good News to the shepherds out in the fields.

By now, most of us have heard this story many times. Of course, there are children among us for whom this is a new story, and there are others among us who have lived through dozens and dozens of Christmases. And, this year alone, some of us have been preparing for the Christmas season since October… a full quarter of the year. So, by the time we’ve reached this point, it almost seems normal or expected that this news comes to us from Heaven above.

After all, we’ve put together all the pieces of the manger scene ahead of time. We’ve carefully arranged the Mary piece, surrounded by the Joseph piece, the angel piece (maybe above), and all those interesting animal pieces (some of them historically appropriate and some of them just because we like those particular animals.) Maybe you have the Wise Men out already, or maybe you are waiting for Epiphany to be more biblically accurate… and now, tonight, we get to place the baby Jesus into the scene: right where we’ve made room for him, probably right where he was last year, you know, just the way it should be. To celebrate the Good News of the birth of Christ, that we know so well.

But on that first night, those shepherds in the fields never saw it coming. For them, the whole Christmas story was unknown, unplanned, shocking — and — when they first heard it, terrifying.

On the night the angel announced to them glad tidings of great joy, the shepherds were right in the middle of doing their job. And, not an easy job either. While most ‘normal’ folks were safe and warm at night in their homes, the shepherds worked out in the open. This put not only them in danger, but their whole family, back home alone at night, in danger, too. You’d think most people would cut the shepherds some slack since this was, you know, their job, but actually, a lot of people looked down on the shepherds since they didn’t have a ‘normal life.’ Whatever that actually is.

So, surrounded by people and an environment that wanted to hurt the poor shepherds and their sheep, you can imagine that a strange angel, (or ‘strangel’, I guess?) approaching them out of the darkness had the shepherds feeling defensive and scared.

But the message the angel brought was something different… the angel told the shepherds not to be afraid. The angel told the shepherds that their savior was being born right in the middle of everything, interrupting the everyday fear of life with the news of everyday joy of life.

I wonder, can we hear the Good News in the same way the shepherds first did? Not as a given, not as the next part of our regular programming, but can we hear it fresh and unexpected. Can we hear it as it was read aloud this evening: right in the middle of everything.

As if to say: “We now interrupt our regular programming for a Word from God.”

Now, maybe you like your regular programming, maybe you’ve found some comfort in your life, and you don’t particularly want to change it up. Or maybe, you don’t like your regular programming…maybe you feel a bit like the shepherds — that you don’t have a ‘normal life,’ that you have things you aren’t proud of, or things you wish were different, pain you carry from childhood, or new pain. And so you might feel a little defensive, and a little scared to have an angel, or God, or anyone else show up right in the middle of your life, announced.

When the shepherds had their God moment right in the middle of life, they were initially scared. Maybe they had learned to live with their fear. Maybe it was their ‘normal.’

But what the Christmas news did to them, and what it can do to us, too, is to turn our fear into joy. It announces that God is showing up right into the middle of our fear. Right into the middle of our everyday lives — and giving us everyday joy. News that God loves us not just on special days, or in special places, or when we’ve arranged our lives into perfect manger scenes — but that God loves us by showing up right in the middle of whatever we’ve got going on. That God doesn’t stay ‘in Heaven above’ but comes down and is born into blood, and sweat, and tears, and emotions, and pain, and shame, and even death, and says there is news of joy here. In this life, in this world.

Ah, dearest Jesus, holy child,
prepare a bed, soft, undefiled,
a quiet chamber in my heart,
that you and I may never part.

This is what we celebrate at Christmas: fear turned into joy. Tonight, people of different ages, from different places, with different experiences, all gather to prepare a place in their hearts. All huddle in the dark to see this light that gives hope. Hope that shows us that, despite our differences, God is here: in our world; right in the middle of our lives.

Turning our fear into joy.

I say ‘our’ because something — whether it was family, or tradition, or the need to hear and sing a word of hope — something has drawn us here tonight so our fear can turn to joy. But we also know that there are many others who are longing to hear Good News of some kind, but won’t find themselves in a church tonight, and won’t find themselves singing these hymns of joy surrounded by others, because they are right in the middle of something else going on. But now we know that is exactly where God loves to find us.

My heart for very joy now leaps;
my voice no longer silence keeps;
I too must sing with joyful tongue
the sweetest ancient cradle-song:

Once the shepherds followed the angel’s directions and found the baby Jesus, savior of the nations, lying in a lowly manger, they knew that not only was the Good News of Joy true, but that it was true for them. For their not-quite-normal lives. That it was joy for their stories, for their families, for their pains. It was joy that found its way right to the middle of their own hearts.

And once God’s joy has broken into the middle of our life, we share it like the shepherds.

The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.

On their way home from Bethlehem, the shepherds must have encountered many others who were in the middle of their lives. Many others who also knew what it was to live with every day fear. And that’s right where the shepherds would be able to tell them of the good news that God finds us right where we are and turns our fear to joy.

As we leave from here, we’ll no doubt encounter folks in the middle of their lives. We’ll run into people who feel a little defensive about their not-quite-normal lives, whether they care to admit it or not. We’ll find ourselves in the middle of something that causes us fear and aggravation.

And all we can do is share the Good News that God’s love for us shows up not when we’ve accomplished perfection, not when we’ve organized our details correctly, not when we’ve had perfect church attendance, but right in the middle of whatever is going on in our lives. And there, there God loves us.

From heav’n above to earth he comes
to bear good news to ev’ry home!
Glad tidings of great joy he brings
to all the world, we gladly sing.

There’s this recurring joke in the Mel Brooks film “High Anxiety” where every time one character is helping move or carry something, he goes, “I got it. I got it… I don’t got it.” And drops whatever he’s carrying. I sometimes feel like that this time of year, when my Advent good intentions turn into Christmas anxieties. I think to myself: “I’m ready. I’m ready… I’m not ready.”

And it’s not just readiness in planning for holiday festivities with family and friends … although, I’m not ready in that department. And it’s not just readiness in preparations for Christmas Eve worship and preaching … although, I’m not totally ready in that department either. What I’m not sure of, as we approach Christmas, is the readiness to believe that God’s Word actually takes on skin and enters into our little world here — a world full of imperfections, annoyances, difficult decisions, and, let’s face it, high anxiety.

Now, there is nothing magical about the Eve and the day of December 25th; it’s not like we are somehow closer to God on that particular day of the calendar, kind of like when the planet Earth is closest to the Sun. No, of course God is always present in our world. But it is this time of year that our readings and our songs draw us into remembering the immanence of God, the closeness of God, which can be both comforting and terrifying, to be honest. “I’m ready, I’m ready,” I tell myself, as I think of all the ways in which our world needs to be changed by the presence of God, until I start to realize that a lot of that change needs to happen in me, too, and then… “I’m not ready.”

I do feel ready, as I think about how Jesus, the Prince of Peace, is needed in this world to bring together people who are so angry that they won’t speak with each other. I’m ready as I think about how Jesus, the Wonderful Counselor, could help so many people around me make better decisions in their lives. I’m not so ready as I realize Jesus, King of the Nations, means I won’t be in charge anymore.

All of this is to underscore how amazing it is to find in the Gospel account from Luke — this story of Emmanuel, God with us, entering into our world — that it all comes to pass with young Mary. Could you find a less prepared person to be Ground Zero for the Incarnation, the most important human character in the story of the Birth of Jesus? Mary?

If Mary lived in our society, she most likely would not be old enough to vote. She might not be old enough to drive a car. If they made a true-to-life movie about everything that’s recorded in the book of Luke, Mary wouldn’t be old enough to watch it in a movie theater! And in her society, she would have been considered among the least important and least powerful of all people.

I had to prepare for four years to become a pastor, but for the most vulnerable moment of Jesus’ life, for his birth into this dangerous and anxious world, God chose Mary, an unwed woman who had never even before given birth. Don’t you think God would have chosen someone with at least a little experience?

So as you and I contemplate whether we are ready for Christmas, just imagine Mary getting the news that she got in today’s Gospel.

An angel, a messenger of God, appeared out of the blue, passing over all the rich and powerful people, all the movers and shakers of first century Mediterranean politics and came instead to a nobody, according to her society. Even her name, Mary, was extremely common then. (That’s why there are so many Marys in the Gospels.) And God’s messenger tells Mary, “Greetings, favored one.” See, even before she knows what’s about to happen, even before she agrees to anything that the angel says, she is already favored. She is already blessed. And then the angel explains that she will bear a child who will be great. Nothing that Mary had ever done had probably been called ‘great’ before. And besides that, Mary wonders how this could even be possible, being a virgin, being so ill prepared, being unready to even have a regular child, let alone the Son of the Most High. And the angel says, yes, but this is a God thing. With God, nothing is impossible. And with that simple explanation, Mary says, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

And in that moment, we can see why God passed over the proud and the powerful. God favored Mary, who knew beyond any doubt that all her strength, all her readiness, came from God alone. Let it be with me according to your word, she said.

Her readiness had nothing to do with being prepared and had everything to do with God.

This is the Gospel: the surprise that God’s love for us has nothing to do with our preparedness, nor our accomplishments. This Good News turns everything upside down. It works opposite the way we expect. It seems so risky that God would choose Mary. It seems so irrational that God would favor us before we’ve done anything. When Mary herself experiences this Gospel she sings God’s praises:

“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. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever.” (Luke 1.46–55 NRSV)

We are never quite prepared for the way God enters our world: through weakness, through the lowly, in the last place that we expect.

~~~

I read a quote this week from a well-known writer and Trappist monk named Thomas Merton who said, “Advent is the beginning of the end of all in us that is not yet Christ.” [x2] In other words, Advent is not just the few weeks that we wait for the day and celebration of Christmas. Advent is everything in us that is waiting for Christ. Advent is any time and any place in our lives that is not quite there. When we are ready, ready, not quite ready.

And just like the season of Advent is hopeful anticipation for the coming of Christmas, the deeper meaning of Advent is hopeful anticipation for the coming of Christ into every part of our world, our bodies, and our minds that is not yet Christlike.

Advent is hope for all the un-Christlike parts of us. The parts that don’t live up to Christ, the Prince of Peace. To Christ’s gentle Wisdom. To his bold and dangerous faith in God. To his uncompromising love for his neighbor. Advent is hope for all those parts that are not yet Christ in us that we don’t like. And even more: Advent is hope for all the parts that are not yet Christ that we do like — or at least, that don’t want to let go of.

Advent is hope for our lives and the world around us to hear the same Good News that Mary heard: that God has favored us, even before we know what’s to come next. The Good News that we will experience the presence of the Most High God in this world. In flesh and blood.

And the Good News that Christ is coming to us, into every part of us that is not yet Christ.

But just as this Good News comes in the most surprising way at Christmas, it comes in the most surprising ways into our lives. The Gospel turns our world upside down, too. This process of Christ coming into our lives causes us to grow in ways we don’t expect.

Growing in Christ is not becoming greater and great. Growing in Christ is becoming lesser and lesser. It’s not picking up more and more, but letting go more and more. Growing in Christ is not hopeful anticipation that we will one day figure it out, but hopeful anticipation that we will one day say, like Mary, without doubt or hesitation, “Let it be with me, according to God’s will.”

We cannot be prepared. But we can be ready.

Are your Christmas lights up yet?

You may or may not be aware that there is some controversy about when Christmas lights should go up. Some folks say that Christmas lights everywhere should be reserved for the Christmas season which technically begins at Christmas and goes for 12 days. So all the beautiful decorations already up are incorrect in that thinking. Same thing goes for other Christmas decorations and Christmas songs. I read this week of one theologian who refuses to put up her Christmas tree at all until Christmas Eve. (I don’t even suggest such a thing to my wife!)

As joyless as it might seem, abstaining from Christmas celebrations before Christmas does have some benefits. For one, we get to experience the season of Advent — which is not so much a mini-Lent as we used to think of it, but its own season… one of hope and renewal. Not too mention the cool Advent hymns that we only have four Sundays to sing! Advent, in the grand scheme of the church year, is the beginning of the dim, small light that grows into the glow of Christmas, and finally the bright star of Epiphany bright enough for the whole to see. It all starts with the little light shining in the darkness at Advent.

Even if you maintained a liturgically pure Advent household, you’d walk out into a Christmas world filled with artificial lights and holly and music and most of it announcing not the Incarnation of Jesus Christ but announcing the same old same old, but this time with a Santa hat on.

And the trouble, I think, is not that we’re breaking some rule about the proper celebration of Christmas and Advent; the trouble is that there can be so much noise, and so much light that it becomes hard to tell what’s real light and what’s artificial light.

The history of Christmas and Advent celebrations is that they developed during a time in the Northern Hemisphere when the days get shorter and shorter. And the nights — and the darkness — get longer and longer. Until finally, right about Christmas, the light returns and the days start getting longer again. You can see how the Christmas and Advent seasons fit the earth’s season. Which I kind of notice as I drive home in the evenings, I guess, but really, there are lights in the parking lot, lights on my car, (so many construction lights at Bryan Dairy and Starkey that it feels like daylight), and, as soon as I get home the lights are on, and I hardly notice the darkness at all.

So much for the seasons. I wonder if our spirituality is the same way? There are so many artificial lights in our world…so many well wishes and holiday cards and nice sentiments… and none of them are bad…but maybe there is so much this time of year that we can ignore the darkness that is not only beyond the bright lights of the parking lot, but the darkness that is in our hearts, too.

That’s when we need someone like John the Baptist in our lives to tell us some truth about light and dark.

“He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.” (John 1.7–8 NRSV)

And he wasn’t testifying about Christmas lights. The Light that John was talking about was of a different sort. John, in the true tradition of God’s messengers before him, told the people about the difference between what is from God, and what is not from God. He told them that a lot of what passes as light in this world is actually darkness. And he told them the surprising truth that the Light from God looked nothing like what the people expected.

“Among you stands one whom you do not know” (John 1.26 NRSV)

In other words, the light of God was already shining among them, but they didn’t yet see it.

Wherever you fall in the Christmas/Advent debate, whether you have gone full force into the Christmas spirit, or whether you are trying to tune out those same Christmas songs playing over and over again, the truth is that the light that we are waiting for is already here, standing among us, and we haven’t noticed it. Maybe because the artificial lights are too bright, or maybe because we’ve shut our eyes closed because we can’t take it anymore, but either way we often miss the light of the One who is already standing among us.

You know where you won’t miss him? You won’t miss the light of God in your life when it gets really dark. When the things or the people that thought you could depend on burn out; when you yourself feel burnt out. And you come face to face with some darkness that you wished wasn’t there. Some darkness that you hoped you could keep away with a little extra eggnog, or Christmas music, or holiday shopping…but there it is, the darkness underneath all the light and maybe a gnawing sense that you can’t live up to your own expectations for this season; to your family’s expectations for this season; to God’s expectations for this season.

And once again, John the Baptist is our friend. Because in the face of all the artificial light and real darkness underneath, John says something that we need to hear, and we need to repeat… you know what it is? John says:

“I am not the messiah.” Will you try saying it? “I am not the messiah.” Maybe one more time? “I am not the messiah.”

Do you believe it?

Not that I think any of you are crazy, and would claim to be the messiah, but we so often place the expectations of the whole world on our own shoulders. We expect of ourselves and others what really belongs to God. We start to think that all these lights around us, on our homes, on our trees, in stores, and on TV… we start to think that these lights are the Light. We start to think that our rules and traditions and festivities and holiday to-do lists are what saves us. We start to think that we are what saves us. When I do that, it becomes liberating to remind myself that I am not the messiah.

Whatever lights you put up and whenever you put them, I hope you enjoy them. I enjoy them. And we’ll remember together that they are not the light, that they can only, like John, point to the true Light.

And we’ll remember together that when the Holiday anxiety rises, or the darkness shows up in our lives — we’ll remember that we are not the messiah.

But you know what we are? One last time, John tells us: We are baptized. We are joined to the One true light. We are claimed by the one who does save us. We are baptized. There is light for us, as the Gospel says:

“What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” (John 1.3–5 NRSV)

Amen.

The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.

And the beginning of the Good News; the beginning of the Gospel, the story of Jesus the Christ starts not with the birth in the manger, or the baptism of Jesus, but instead with the voice of one (who is not Jesus) crying out in the wilderness. That voice belongs to John the baptist, or John the baptizer, and John is … well … John is different.

Your first impression of John, if you met him, might have been that John was pretty weird. He was doing his thing, not where respectable people do business in the town, but out in the wilderness. In the wild. And he looked weird: he wore clothes made of camel’s hair… he ate food off the ground. He looked like the kind of person that, if he was walking on your side of the street, would encourage you to cross over to the other side.

But, not only is John the baptist superficially different, but he is doing and saying something that makes him different, too. Instead of preaching a get-rich-quick scheme, or a nice comforting message that everything is going to be OK, John was proclaiming repentance. That means, he was telling people that they were doing it wrong. And that they needed to change the habits, their lifestyle, their beliefs. That the status quo needed to change. That is a different message than most. It’s also a message that will get you into trouble (and maybe you already know how the story ends up for John.)

Another thing that makes John different is that even though crowds of people were flocking to him. And even though people supported him, and trusted him — confessing their sins and being baptized by him — John did not claim to be the One.

He proclaimed, “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.

John insisted not on his own power, but on the power of one to come. John is waiting, of course, for Jesus.

History is filled with charismatic preachers that abused their power, but John is different. John’s message is compared to another “different” messenger of God, the prophet Isaiah. We heard these words of Isaiah in our first reading:

A voice cries out: “In the wilderness prepare the way of the LORD, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain. Then the glory of the LORD shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together, for the mouth of the LORD has spoken.” (Isaiah 40.3–5 NRSV)

And once again, you can get yourself in trouble preaching a message like this. Because of course, if the coming of Lord will bring evenness to uneven ground, that means that the ground you’re on — right now — is not even. And that can be challenging to hear. John, like Isaiah before him, preached repentance. “Repentance” is not exactly what you would call and comfortable theme. You won’t find many repentance cards at the Hallmark store. Hollywood does not churn out many Repentance movies. If you are at all like me, you maybe don’t appreciate when someone points out that the ground you’re standing on is uneven. Or that you’re in ‘a rough place’ — another phrase that Isaiah uses.

When the ground under your feet or my feet is called into question… it is uncomfortable. It can even be angering.

In workplaces and in classrooms and around dinner tables across our country, I imagine that there are some uncomfortable conversations going on this week about issues that have been in the news: issues about race and privilege. I would guess that some of you will find yourselves in a conversation this week about what has dominated the headlines: violence in our communities, and the effects of racism. Even as we would really rather be thinking about the peace of that Silent Night coming up, and the blessings in our families, and in our church… through the stories of violence comes the challenge, like an uncomfortable voice crying out in the wilderness, that the ground beneath our feet is uneven. So, what do we do when we are confronted with uneven ground, with the ‘rough places’? What do we do when we hear the crying of mothers who have lost their sons to violence, or when we think of police officers who begin every shift knowing they may be risking their lives? Or any of the uncomfortable situations in our lives? What do we do when the road gets bumpy?

Well, for one, we can deny it. We can hide from the problems and hope that they go away. Or, if we’re more arrogant, we can say, “that ground isn’t uneven at all.” Yes, we people of faith do this today, but it isn’t new: as the prophet Jeremiah said:

They have treated the wound of my people carelessly, saying, “Peace, peace,” when there is no peace.

There’s another option for when the road gets rough. We can give up. When we see the depths of suffering and we see the headlines over and over, it can seem like there is no hope. Or, maybe you’ve had the experience of reaching out your hand to make a difference and gotten burned — tried to help someone and got taken advantage of. Then, we’d be tempted to be like those that the prophet Zephaniah talks about, those who say:

“The LORD will not do good, nor will he do harm.”

In other words, God doesn’t make much difference either way, and we’re on our own in this world.

Neither of those options, denial nor giving, sound very good, do they?

Maybe that’s why so many people, the Gospel tells us, were heading out into the wilderness to hear this very different voice crying out. Maybe that’s why the whole Judean countryside, and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to John the Baptist — even though he was weird. Maybe, they couldn’t deny the unevenness anymore; couldn’t pretend anymore that the rough places in their lives together were actually smooth. And maybe they also weren’t ready to give up hope; maybe they wanted to believe that God still had a word for them.

John the Baptist proclaimed a different way. John’s words called them, and his words call us to live life now, in this world, as if every valley was lifted up, every hill made low, every uneven spot made level, and every rough place made smooth. In other words, don’t act as if our crooked world is just good enough, act as if was the way God intended it to be!

When I was a kid, I used to wonder at some of the weird things that my grandfather did. He was kind to people that weren’t kind back. He taught us to pray for others who probably weren’t praying for us. He shared things in a way that most people never did. I remember thinking that maybe he was really clever, and that the rest of the world would come around, and his way of living would actually make sense. Well, he died, and no, the world was not really any different. But, I realized, that he had made a habit of living his life as if the Kingdom of God was already here, and in fact, through him, the Kingdom of God had broken into my life, too.

How would your conversations go this week, if you knew the Kingdom of God was breaking in? How would you face people who are different from you, or people you disagree with, if you could act as if the world was being made into the way it should be?

Isaiah says that then:

the glory of the LORD shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together.

Together.

This world is not yet the way it should be. We can’t deny it, and we can’t fix it ourselves. But there is one coming who is greater. There is one coming who will forgive us, who will lift us up, and make our ways even so that we can live together in peace.

And even though the world is still uneven, we can live in the Kingdom of God, now. Even if it makes us the ones who are … different

““But in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory. Then he will send out the angels, and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.
“From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that he is near, at the very gates. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.
“But about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come. It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch. Therefore, keep awake—for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly. And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.”” (Mark 13.24–37 NRSV)

So, here we are: the moment you’ve been waiting for. The moment I’ve been waiting for: the first Sunday of the Church year — the beginning of Advent and the church’s calendar. Or, did you think I meant something else? Actually, it is a little funny (to me, at least) that you, as a congregation, and I, as a pastor, have come through the past year (or more) of waiting and waiting… and your Call Committee and Council have done hard work, and all of it has brought us to this moment together to begin what really is the first Sunday of the year according to the Church calendar.

And knowing these things, you could be forgiven if you thought that today’s Scripture, after all that waiting, might say something like this:

And, lo, Jesus told them, “Good job guys! Your hard work and patience have been rewarded! You shall have peaceful, easy livin’ from here on out.

But the Bible today, or ever, says no such thing. Instead, Jesus tells us in the Gospel of Mark:

Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come.

Doesn’t Jesus know it’s my first Sunday?

That’s right, as we begin our ministry together, my first sermon is not about how you’ve clearly made the right decision, about how our future is perfectly clear, and that we can all just put our heads back down and call it a day. Instead, today, we are talking about waiting. And being alert.

Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come.

When Jesus says ‘beware,’ I think it means for us, “pay attention.”

This Gospel lesson with which we begin our time together, and which begins the church year is from the Gospel of Mark, and it’s all about paying attention. Sometimes it’s nicknamed “Mark’s Apocalypse.” Now, I know the word apocalypse sounds pretty scary…and it can be, Jesus talks about the sun darkening and the moon not giving light and stars falling from heaven and the powers in the heavens being shaken. Which is serious stuff. But, he also talks about buds blooming on a I want to tell you a secret. The word apocalypse, by itself, doesn’t actually mean ‘end of the world,’ or explosions, or war. The word apocalypse simply means to ‘peel back’, to ‘uncover the truth.’ That’s exactly what Jesus was doing as he spoke about the buds blooming and stars darkening. Revealing the truth. Not just about something in the future, but the truth about what was going on right then and there in his time. Pay attention, he says.

The people to whom Jesus was speaking lived in a world that was longing for truth. They had a government that barely tolerated the Jewish religion, and eventually would outlaw it. They heard a lot about peace, but the way peace was kept was extremely violent. Think of crucifixion if you want one example. Jesus met folks who were disabled or very poor — and for those reasons considered to be worthless.

He also met folks that were sick, and folks that were grieving the loss of a loved one. Are their stories sounding familiar to you, yet? And to each one, Jesus revealed truth. Apocalypse. In fact, you could think of Jesus’ entire life and ministry as an apocalypse, an uncovering of this truth, this apocalyptic message from verse 29:

“So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that [God] is near, at the very gates.” (Mark 13:29 NRSV)

You see, as real and as close as these other things were: violence, sickness, and death…Jesus was revealing something to them even more real, and even closer: the presence of God. So pay attention, he told them.

And us? What about us? If we pay attention, will we find the presence of God? In the midst of violence, sickness, and death in our world, in our lives; in the midst of new beginnings here at Good Shepherd; in the midst of the holiday season…are we alert to what God is doing?

And here we find the trap… Because: I wonder, what happens to you when a preacher tells you you need to find God? One of my favorite bumper stickers in the world says, “Look busy, Jesus is coming.” When I’m anxious about whether or not I’m on the right track to finding God, or whether I’m a good enough person, my temptation is to do more, to stress more, to buy more. My temptation is to be more and more busy. And busy makes me feel like I’m paying attention.

But busy is the opposite of paying attention. Busy is the opposite of paying attention.

See, the truth that Jesus desperately wants to apocalypse, uncover before our very eyes is the same truth that he offers in the Gospel of Mark: that God is, at this very moment, already near to us. When Jesus says, be alert, pay attention, it doesn’t mean ‘go do a bunch of stuff because you’re anxious about God.’ It means ‘stop, because God is already here.’

God is near. At our very doors.

And I know that it’s hard to see that sometimes. It’s a truth that needs constant uncovering. It gets covered up so easily in our world. Between all the pressure to ‘do the holidays right.’ Watching commercials of perfect families in perfect candlelit homes, it’s hard to feel like your to-do list will ever be done. Or maybe you’ll be missing someone who won’t be here this holiday season. It can sure feel like God is far off when you’ve lost someone you love.

And looking a little broader, we see and read about places like Ferguson, MO where the truth of God’s nearness is covered underneath layer and layer of fear. All God’s children — afraid of each other. This is not just a problem ‘out there.’ Surely each and every one of us has fears that can blind us to the nearness of God. I know I do.

But hear the words of Jesus, “send[ing] out the angels, and gather[ing] his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.” In other words, no matter how buried the truth is, no matter how far you feel from finding God, God will stop at nothing from finding you. From uncovering the truth that the Kingdom of God is near. Here and now, and beneath the violence, sickness, and sadness of our lives, the truth is that God has already come. There’s no need to ‘look busy’ because Jesus is already here.

We don’t have to do more. We don’t have to stress more. We don’t have to buy more. God is already here. We stop. We pay attention to what God has come to do. And then we join in.

Here at Good Shepherd, I look forward to us rolling up our sleeves together and getting to work in God’s kingdom. But we’re not here to do busy work.

BASE HEADER LEVEL: 2

“After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, ‘He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.’ This is my message for you.” So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them and said, “Greetings!” And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, “Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.”” (Matthew 28.1–10 NRSV)

Friends, do not be afraid. The tomb has been emptied. Jesus has been raised.

On another Sunday morning as the sun came up, something truly new had happened. It was the first day of a new week. You have to think that Mary and Mary, the women that went to mourn at Jesus’ tomb, were thinking that at least this new week couldn’t be as bad as the previous. That previous week (that no one yet had the nerve to call “holy week”) gave way to mob mentality, a terrible injustice, snide remarks, good people turned violent, an innocent friend tortured and dead. And worst of all, the hopes and dreams of people who thought they had found a new way, a new life, a new chance to be real people came to an end. Jesus, the best chance to end the reign of terror, the best shot to help them worship God without fear was hung on a cross as an example and sealed in a tomb as the end of a revolution. Pilate ordered the tomb be made as secure as possible.

And just when you think it couldn’t get any worse… when all that these poor women want to do is pay their respects to their friend…

… there was an earthquake. Can’t they let the poor man rest in peace? And now the Mary’s are afraid. Even the guards are afraid. Something is happening. Something truly different. Truly new.

An angel appears, the first words out of his mouth: “Do not be afraid.” After the week they’ve been thru? Ha! It was a week designed to make followers of Jesus afraid. Their friend and teacher was crucified to make them afraid. That what crucifixion is for. It’s a terribly inefficient way to kill someone. But it’s public. It’s humiliating. It says, “if you also step out of line, look what will happen to you. Be afraid, be very afraid.”

So what could have possibly happened on an early Sunday morning that we should no longer be afraid?

Jesus Christ is risen today.

Resurrection changes everything. In the past, in the future, now. The empty tomb means that this past week of suffering and betrayal truly was holy. Resurrection means the cross is no longer a sign of fear, but a sign of love. The empty tomb means that the healing, the wholeness that Jesus nurtured in this world was not just a naive idea he had, but was (and is) the real thing.

It changes everything in your life. Resurrection means that you do not have to be afraid. Whatever week you’ve been through, whatever month, year, lifetime you’ve been through truly was holy. Probably not easy. But holy.

Holy because the tomb is empty. Whatever struggles you’ve been through, whatever mistakes have been made, fear does not get the last word. Do not be afraid: The tomb is empty. Death itself is dead.

Holy week is behind you. Jesus goes ahead of you. Calling you into a future without fear. To live your life in a truly different, truly new way. A way that sees life in death, power in weakness, wisdom in foolishness.

Everything that stands between you and God was nailed to that cross and sealed in the tomb.

Friends, do not be afraid. The tomb is empty. We have nothing left to fear.

BASE HEADER LEVEL: 2

Tonight we draw near to the cross by telling the story of the Passion from the Gospel of John. There is a balance to this. On this darkest day on the Christian calendar, as we approach the lowest point in human history, the Gospel of John, more so than any other, reminds us that even in death — Jesus is Lord and King. John’s passion emphasizes that at what seems like rock bottom, Jesus has overcome evil with good. John’s Jesus never flinches. He faces off with soldiers, the chief priests, Pilate without raising a finger. He carries his own cross. He allows himself to die. We hear this not to prove that Jesus was a really macho guy, but we hear this because when the Gospel of John was recorded, later than the other Gospels, the disciples more clearly understood that the Way of the Cross was God’s plan to save the world. By the time John’s Gospel was recorded there had been a break between Jewish people who accepted the story of Christ and those that did not. Those that did not are who John simply calls, The Jews. Now people who came along much later used the depiction of Jews in John’s Gospel to discriminate against an entire race of people. That is not what is meant here. A Jew and a follower of Christ in John’s Gospel could have been brother and sister. A father and a son. When you hear, the Jews in John’s Gospel — think: those that resisted the Way of the Cross. This is not a Jewish problem, this is a human problem. It is our problem. It is why we gather around the cross tonight to hear again this mystery: that in this darkest of nights, God draws nearest to us.