1 Christmas 2007
(Isaiah 61:10-62:3; Ps 147; Gal 3: 23-25, 4: 4-7; John 1: 1-18)
Gather up the wrapping paper and recycle the tree! Grab the ol’ midriff and shake, check to see if that’s where the eggnog and cookies came in for a landing. Decide on the New Year’s plans, if you’re not just laying low and staying off the roads. Open the credit card invoice and wince if you dare to look at all! Yes, the culture’s Christmas is winding down. But we still have a gift to open. It’s still Christmastime. In silence and prayer, Scripture and song, we are still here, in the mystery, in the light, in the impossible joy of the old news that is always new. We are here in the light of the gift. The gift of Christmas is: we are changed. We have been changed. We shall be changed. Even the earth itself is new.
Many stories are told of how everything changed when the Word was made flesh. The Germans say that the winter forest broke into leaves and spring flowers. The Irish say the Druids prophesied that the King of the Stars was born, and Brigid herself journeyed through the night sky to assist at his birth. Shakespeare says that on that night no disease did kill, no sorcerer cast an evil spell and no demon dared walk abroad.
All those tales are trying to say how everything changed, and would never be the same again.
And so Isaiah says, who calls us to praise. Rejoice like a bride draped with jewels! Cry out like an eager bridegroom dressed in the robe of a lifetime! God won’t stop speaking, won’t stop shouting until every promise is fulfilled!
In a world of broken promises and short-term contracts, today we can relax into the promises of God. If we have eyes that are Christmas-bright, then we can see the light that shines forth from all creation and from our very skins.
Our skins are different too. We went to sleep in the night of our doubts and fears, the skins of slaves. We awoke in the skins of sons and daughters, the blood-kin of the King, family and heirs. All that is God’s, is ours. All that is glory, is ours. The cry of the Beloved to the Divine Heart is ours—“Abba! Daddy! Loving God who encircles us and sets us free!”
We’re set free to be a new creation.
That’s John’s song which we just heard: new creation. The first creation-song of Genesis sang of the beginning, of the heavens and the earth. This new song of John sings of the Beginning before the beginning, of the Wisdom which sang at God’s side as existence itself came to be. “The Word became flesh”, God became flesh so that we might become God. God’s own heart gave birth to the Beloved before time was. That Word takes human life for love and penetrates ever more deeply into the heart of God. Language fails us. But even our poor words kindle a longing within us, a God-driven desire to be ever more fully and completely who we are—the beloved of God, those who participate in God. “No one has ever seen God. It is God’s only Son, the Beloved of God, who has made him known.”
What does it all mean?
It means that we have received the glistening Gift of gifts. It means that nothing is ordinary. It means that nothing is everyday. It means that nothing is dull or dreary. It means that no defeat is final. It means that death does not have the last word. It means that we are meant for God because God longs for us and for God and within us by water and the Spirit is God. While the culture moves on we can bask in the incarnate Word and know that we are and can be all that we are promised and are called to be. Daughters and sons, new creation, transformed and freed.
archived musings and preachments
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
"Toward God" and the monastic pilgrimage
FINALLY, I invite Companions of Columba, Culdees, and any other friends of like mind to follow an ongoing conversation thru means of this 'blog. We here at The Columba Center of Saints Peter and Paul have been experimenting with the ancient Christian wisdom of monasticism and searching for the ways in which this wisdom may inform our own pilgrimage today. We have found ourselves part of a much larger movement as a result, as many faithful seekers are coming to treasure the ancient monastic tradition and seek one another's company as they seek the poor Christ.
Sacred study is a foundation-stone of the monastic heritage, first of Scripture, but also of texts which contribute to ongoing Christian formation. One year ago we agreed to such a study of Michael Casey's book "Toward God". Casey is a Trappist (Cistercian) Abbot from Australia, and "Toward God" is one of the most solid and wise contemporary books I have read on the Western tradition of monastic-inspired prayer--never dumbed-down or condescending, clear, accessible, unsentimental. "Toward God" is still in print, and for anyone in PDX I still have one copy for sale. Otherwise I am sure it is available from Amazon as well as from bookstores with a Catholic Christian bent or a wide assortment of theological materials (maybe even Powell's). Here's the bibliographical info:
Casey, Michael "Toward God: The Ancient Wisdom Of Western Prayer". Liguori, Missouri: Liguori Publications, 1996.
What I will covenant to do is this: Each Thursday I will post a comment on the week's chapter of "Toward God" in this 'blog. At the end of the post click on "comments" to add your own thoughts, if desired, as comments on the post. These can be read by any of us who clicks on "comments". If we cover a chapter a week, we'll conclude with "Toward God" in mid-April, during Eastertide. Then we can talk about whether or not this experiment worked for us. And anyone who wishes to read along with us, no matter where you are, and wishes to make creative contribution is welcome to do so!
Just for sake of clarity, the first post to the 'blog each week will usually be the previous week's sermon, posted by Wednesday AM at the latest.
Light and peace in the Son of Mary,
kurt neilson+
Sacred study is a foundation-stone of the monastic heritage, first of Scripture, but also of texts which contribute to ongoing Christian formation. One year ago we agreed to such a study of Michael Casey's book "Toward God". Casey is a Trappist (Cistercian) Abbot from Australia, and "Toward God" is one of the most solid and wise contemporary books I have read on the Western tradition of monastic-inspired prayer--never dumbed-down or condescending, clear, accessible, unsentimental. "Toward God" is still in print, and for anyone in PDX I still have one copy for sale. Otherwise I am sure it is available from Amazon as well as from bookstores with a Catholic Christian bent or a wide assortment of theological materials (maybe even Powell's). Here's the bibliographical info:
Casey, Michael "Toward God: The Ancient Wisdom Of Western Prayer". Liguori, Missouri: Liguori Publications, 1996.
What I will covenant to do is this: Each Thursday I will post a comment on the week's chapter of "Toward God" in this 'blog. At the end of the post click on "comments" to add your own thoughts, if desired, as comments on the post. These can be read by any of us who clicks on "comments". If we cover a chapter a week, we'll conclude with "Toward God" in mid-April, during Eastertide. Then we can talk about whether or not this experiment worked for us. And anyone who wishes to read along with us, no matter where you are, and wishes to make creative contribution is welcome to do so!
Just for sake of clarity, the first post to the 'blog each week will usually be the previous week's sermon, posted by Wednesday AM at the latest.
Light and peace in the Son of Mary,
kurt neilson+
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
The Twelve Days
The culture and economy may move on with "post-Christmas" sales and plans for New Year's parties, but we began our new year with the First Sunday of Advent and are only now in the Christmas season. Wondrous, stark holy days filled with mysteries await. Today is St. Stephen's Day, deacon and first martyr of the church, a good day to give to the poor as did "Good King Wenceslaus" of the old carol. St. John's Day follows on the 27th (Mass here at 9:30 AM), a day to luxuriate in the light of the incarnate Word and to drink a glass of red wine (or red juice!) and toast one another with "God is love" or "I drink you the love of Saint John." Friday the 28th is Holy Innocents Day (Mass here at 12:00 Noon), when the slaughter of the babies of Bethlehem by a paranoid King Herod recounted in the Gospel of Matthew is recounted. A good day to pray for the overthrow of all "unclean tyrants" and perhaps check the websites of Sojourners or the Episcopal Public Policy Network for places in the world where the abuses of the powerless require the church's prayers and actions.
In all these Twelve Days keep the uncreated Light before you, and give thanks for the Word made flesh. In daily prayers make use of the Book of Common Prayer Collects of the season (pages 213-214 and 237-238 for saints' days). Also Canticles 20 and 21 (pages 94-95), the "Gloria" and the "Te Deum", are particularly appropriate for daily use.
Below is the text of the parish's Christmas Eve sermon...
Christmas Eve 2007
(Isaiah 9: 2-7; Ps 96; Titus 2: 11-14; Luke 2: 1-14)
Take back the night.
Once each summer neighborhoods celebrate both an ongoing struggle and a victory over fear. We head outside late, well after dark, and sing and barbecue and party. We do this because we have let the night become a time of fear, fear that makes us feel alone. One night does not eliminate fear or make the crime that causes fear to entirely go away. But one night makes real a victory over fear and shows us how things are meant to be. And so the night is transformed, from a realm of fear to a realm of hope.
Tonight believers take back the night.
There is more than enough darkness to spare in the world, and more than enough fear. Fear drives us into isolation, fear makes our worlds small. Some of us may have lived relatively comfortable lives. Others of us have plenty of real reasons to fear the darkness of loss, disease, or violence. And this personal darkness strikes a note of resonance in the larger world.
But here’s the good news of Christmas. The night belongs to God. The mystery that we celebrate took place quietly in the depths of darkness, in the darkness of a violent time and in a violently occupied land. Our peaceful manger scenes do not reflect the exhaustion, anxiety, and tension in the “O Little Town of Bethlehem” that night. The peaceful manger scenes rather convey the hope and gift of that long-ago night, that in this world where darkness and fear go hand-in-hand the love and peace of God took flesh and bone. It’s not that light drove away the darkness. The light re-claimed the darkness as God’s. In the deep darkness of a stable the Hope of all first saw the light of his parents’ eyes. The cries of a woman in labor in the dark were mightier than the war-cries of the armies of Rome. A lamp’s fragile flame shone brighter than all the gold in all the crowns of the world. Sleepy animals and tired shepherds stared and saw more wisdom in the straw than was ever taught by all the clever thinkers ever born. The night of fear and tension was tamed and became the dark womb of Life itself, and Light burst forth for ever illuming the darkest corners of our lives and our world.
Tonight, know no sadness. Tonight, know no fear. I don’t say forget, I don’t say ignore or pretend your burdens don’t exist. But know this: the most fragile of moments, the birth of a poor woman’s baby in a borrowed shed, is more powerful than all the fear and disease and violence of a beautiful but broken and wounded world. Fear is disarmed, hope is kindled. And tonight this gift is for you. Believe it, stretch out your hands and take it. It is “good news of great joy”, for “those who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” “For the grace of God has come”, and “a child has been born for us.” No matter who we are and what has brought us here tonight, this night is for us. Said one early preacher , “No one is shut out from this joy…Let the saint rejoice…Let the sinner be glad…Let the pagan take courage…”
Take back the night. Take back faith. Take back hope. Take back both darkness and light. Take back the Christ, born humble and poor, born strong to love and to set us free.
In all these Twelve Days keep the uncreated Light before you, and give thanks for the Word made flesh. In daily prayers make use of the Book of Common Prayer Collects of the season (pages 213-214 and 237-238 for saints' days). Also Canticles 20 and 21 (pages 94-95), the "Gloria" and the "Te Deum", are particularly appropriate for daily use.
Below is the text of the parish's Christmas Eve sermon...
Christmas Eve 2007
(Isaiah 9: 2-7; Ps 96; Titus 2: 11-14; Luke 2: 1-14)
Take back the night.
Once each summer neighborhoods celebrate both an ongoing struggle and a victory over fear. We head outside late, well after dark, and sing and barbecue and party. We do this because we have let the night become a time of fear, fear that makes us feel alone. One night does not eliminate fear or make the crime that causes fear to entirely go away. But one night makes real a victory over fear and shows us how things are meant to be. And so the night is transformed, from a realm of fear to a realm of hope.
Tonight believers take back the night.
There is more than enough darkness to spare in the world, and more than enough fear. Fear drives us into isolation, fear makes our worlds small. Some of us may have lived relatively comfortable lives. Others of us have plenty of real reasons to fear the darkness of loss, disease, or violence. And this personal darkness strikes a note of resonance in the larger world.
But here’s the good news of Christmas. The night belongs to God. The mystery that we celebrate took place quietly in the depths of darkness, in the darkness of a violent time and in a violently occupied land. Our peaceful manger scenes do not reflect the exhaustion, anxiety, and tension in the “O Little Town of Bethlehem” that night. The peaceful manger scenes rather convey the hope and gift of that long-ago night, that in this world where darkness and fear go hand-in-hand the love and peace of God took flesh and bone. It’s not that light drove away the darkness. The light re-claimed the darkness as God’s. In the deep darkness of a stable the Hope of all first saw the light of his parents’ eyes. The cries of a woman in labor in the dark were mightier than the war-cries of the armies of Rome. A lamp’s fragile flame shone brighter than all the gold in all the crowns of the world. Sleepy animals and tired shepherds stared and saw more wisdom in the straw than was ever taught by all the clever thinkers ever born. The night of fear and tension was tamed and became the dark womb of Life itself, and Light burst forth for ever illuming the darkest corners of our lives and our world.
Tonight, know no sadness. Tonight, know no fear. I don’t say forget, I don’t say ignore or pretend your burdens don’t exist. But know this: the most fragile of moments, the birth of a poor woman’s baby in a borrowed shed, is more powerful than all the fear and disease and violence of a beautiful but broken and wounded world. Fear is disarmed, hope is kindled. And tonight this gift is for you. Believe it, stretch out your hands and take it. It is “good news of great joy”, for “those who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” “For the grace of God has come”, and “a child has been born for us.” No matter who we are and what has brought us here tonight, this night is for us. Said one early preacher , “No one is shut out from this joy…Let the saint rejoice…Let the sinner be glad…Let the pagan take courage…”
Take back the night. Take back faith. Take back hope. Take back both darkness and light. Take back the Christ, born humble and poor, born strong to love and to set us free.
Monday, December 24, 2007
On the eve of the Christ-Mass
On this holy night, dear friends in God, may the peace which passes understanding calm the war in the world and the war in our hearts. And may we keep watch, even during the holy feast, for the coming of the peaceable Kingdom. Below is Advent 4's sermon...
4 Advent A RCL 2007
(Isaiah 7: 10-16; Ps 80; Rom 1: 1-7; Matthew 1: 18-25)
This is how God chose to change the world.
There was no new program, there was no new plan. There was no new candidate, there was no new throne. God chose an old, old way, one that had been spoken of and written of from days beyond days, from the beginning of speech and thought about the one God. And with that old, old way, God chose to make all things new.
NPR reported on the Presidential candidates’ Christmas ads. One appeals to God, another to family. One sits under a Christmas tree unwrapping gifts addressed to the country. “Universal health care” says one box, “balanced budget” says another. Sounds like pretty cool presents. But the real gift that the world wants and needs is not given on camera, paid for by rich contributors, produced for political mileage. The real gift is prepared somewhere else, in the home of someone unknown, far from the glittering glamorous centers of power and control.
A prophet said to a king, “Ask for a real sign from God.” The king refused to ask. So we got the sign instead. A poor woman will have a child, born homeless and soon to running for his life. He shall be God-with-us, and when he comes he will astonish us. He is the one, says passionate Paul, who is of royal blood yet comes poor and humble, whose royal throne was the cross and tomb and whose coronation was rising from the dead. Peace, peace and grace will be ours for ever through his name.
And because he comes as one of the poor, he needs us to give him shelter. He needs us to take him in. He will not force himself through divine decree or threat of violence or even majority vote. He needs us to say “Yes”.
At Christmas we usually think of Mary’s “yes”. “Yes” to the angel’s words, “yes” to the astounding, terrifying, transforming adventure of bearing God to birth and beyond.
But today we have the other Christmas “yes”. We have a quiet “yes”, Joseph’s “yes”. Joseph, the average Joe from Palestine, named for the beloved son of Jacob, the master of dreams. The first Joseph listened in his dreams for the whisper of God, and so first escaped prison and then saved his whole clan from certain death. This new Joseph listens to his dreams as well, and by listening to his dreams delivers us all from slavery. He listens and obeys, although it costs him. “Hey Joe, your fiance’s pregnant, and of course the kid’s not yours. Marry her anyway. Raise the kid like your own. The kid is God’s, and in a way hard to explain the kid IS God.”
No one would have blamed Joe if he’d quietly let the pregnant girl go and moved on. But he listened to his dream, and trusted that there was a God who moved and breathed in the world and could do a new thing. He trusted that even if what God wanted seemed outrageous, it was for the good of us all. He trusted that God’s plan for his life might be better than his own plan. Joseph trusted that God’s will was better than the wills of all the powerful and the wealthy of the world. A priest recently said, “Joseph's mastery of fear should inform our faith. His loyalty to Mary should inform our relationships. His accepting of God's name should inform our priorities.”
To master our fear. To hear the whisper of God in our sleeping or waking dreams. To be loyal to those whom we love. To accept and obey the strange, loving will of God. The way of Joseph may seem hard. But the way of Joseph leads to wonders.
4 Advent A RCL 2007
(Isaiah 7: 10-16; Ps 80; Rom 1: 1-7; Matthew 1: 18-25)
This is how God chose to change the world.
There was no new program, there was no new plan. There was no new candidate, there was no new throne. God chose an old, old way, one that had been spoken of and written of from days beyond days, from the beginning of speech and thought about the one God. And with that old, old way, God chose to make all things new.
NPR reported on the Presidential candidates’ Christmas ads. One appeals to God, another to family. One sits under a Christmas tree unwrapping gifts addressed to the country. “Universal health care” says one box, “balanced budget” says another. Sounds like pretty cool presents. But the real gift that the world wants and needs is not given on camera, paid for by rich contributors, produced for political mileage. The real gift is prepared somewhere else, in the home of someone unknown, far from the glittering glamorous centers of power and control.
A prophet said to a king, “Ask for a real sign from God.” The king refused to ask. So we got the sign instead. A poor woman will have a child, born homeless and soon to running for his life. He shall be God-with-us, and when he comes he will astonish us. He is the one, says passionate Paul, who is of royal blood yet comes poor and humble, whose royal throne was the cross and tomb and whose coronation was rising from the dead. Peace, peace and grace will be ours for ever through his name.
And because he comes as one of the poor, he needs us to give him shelter. He needs us to take him in. He will not force himself through divine decree or threat of violence or even majority vote. He needs us to say “Yes”.
At Christmas we usually think of Mary’s “yes”. “Yes” to the angel’s words, “yes” to the astounding, terrifying, transforming adventure of bearing God to birth and beyond.
But today we have the other Christmas “yes”. We have a quiet “yes”, Joseph’s “yes”. Joseph, the average Joe from Palestine, named for the beloved son of Jacob, the master of dreams. The first Joseph listened in his dreams for the whisper of God, and so first escaped prison and then saved his whole clan from certain death. This new Joseph listens to his dreams as well, and by listening to his dreams delivers us all from slavery. He listens and obeys, although it costs him. “Hey Joe, your fiance’s pregnant, and of course the kid’s not yours. Marry her anyway. Raise the kid like your own. The kid is God’s, and in a way hard to explain the kid IS God.”
No one would have blamed Joe if he’d quietly let the pregnant girl go and moved on. But he listened to his dream, and trusted that there was a God who moved and breathed in the world and could do a new thing. He trusted that even if what God wanted seemed outrageous, it was for the good of us all. He trusted that God’s plan for his life might be better than his own plan. Joseph trusted that God’s will was better than the wills of all the powerful and the wealthy of the world. A priest recently said, “Joseph's mastery of fear should inform our faith. His loyalty to Mary should inform our relationships. His accepting of God's name should inform our priorities.”
To master our fear. To hear the whisper of God in our sleeping or waking dreams. To be loyal to those whom we love. To accept and obey the strange, loving will of God. The way of Joseph may seem hard. But the way of Joseph leads to wonders.
Friday, December 21, 2007
"Be Joyful"
Friends in God: At last we're "live" and this 'blog is active!
We're finishing the week of "Gaudete"--"Be Joyful", in the midst of the culture's demands of the season, in a time of anxiety and uncertainty. It has been a fragile time in the parish. But faithful joy is not a matter of just "cheering up." It is found in the reality of our lives. We were gifted with a stunning sermon this past Rose Sunday by Rev. Tamara Yates, and the text is below--kn
3 Advent A RCL
Today is the Sunday in Advent when we get to be joyful. Our candle today is pink, beckoning us to a lightheartedness in the midst of the more somber purples of the season. Our Old Testament text from Isaiah is sort of like that too—a brief flash of pink in a purple sea of pain and suffering. Isaiah was preaching to the Israelite people when they were in exile in Babylon—uprooted from their homes, their land, the religious context of their temple, they were forcibly taken to a foreign land. To these dire circumstances, Isaiah spoke of a way, a highway, a road through the desert that would lead them back home. Even though the road passes through the deepest, darkest, most dangerous parts of the wilderness, Isaiah promised that no one, not even fools would go astray. That no wild beast would devour anyone, and that water would gush forth and beautiful blossoms abound. That God would save God’s people and lead them home safely. “And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.” Gaudete! Be joyful! It sounds great! And we certainly know about exile. It is all around us: geographic exile of refugees—forced from their countries and having to learn a new language, new customs, new everything; exile from family in this transient and mobile society; exile from our deepest, truest selves. How do we find this road home? This road that will lead us away from exile and to this everlasting joy. From the disconnect we feel in our world and in our own lives to something more real and life-giving? In the text, the people who are walking this road, are the blind—who can now see, the deaf—who can now hear, the paralyzed who are leaping like the deer, and the mute—now singing for joy. That’s great for them, but what about the rest of us? How do we get there?
In our gospel reading, Jesus doesn’t seem to offer much help with this question. John sends a similar inquiry from prison, Are you the one who is to come or should we be waiting for another? Are you going to lead us to this highway, to this path that will turn everything around, that will overturn the injustice we see all around us? Violence is escalating around the world from Iraq to Afghanistan to Darfur. Our environment is suffering. Our children go without healthcare. People all over the planet are starving. And so we ask with John: Are you sure you’re the one who’s going to turn all this around? Or should we be looking for another? But Jesus doesn’t even seem to answer the question. He just goes back to these blind and otherwise impaired people. All he says is that blind people are made to see, deaf people are made to hear, those who are paralyzed are walking, the lepers are cleansed, the poor have the good news preached to them. As a matter of fact, he seems to talk about these folks a lot—in the beatitudes, they are the poor in spirit, and later in Matthew 25 they are the least of these – the hungry, those in prison, the people who don’t have enough money for clothes. These are not the people who are affecting global politics—Jesus, you’re not gonna get very far with these folks. In fact, they don’t seem to have much to do with anything in our lives. What on earth do these people—these nameless, faceless, weak and defenseless people have to do with salvation? What role could they possibly have to play in God’s coming to save us and to bring us this everlasting joy?
As many of you know, I am an assistant at the L’arche community here in Portland: L’Arche Nehalem. L’Arche is an organization that was founded in 1964 in France by a man named Jean Vanier. It is a place where people with developmental disabilities and assistants who are not disabled live, work and pray together-where they create home together. It is a community built upon the belief that people with a developmental disability are uniquely equipped to reveal that human suffering and joy can lead to growth, healing and unity. That these folks have an incredible gift to give our world, that they can be a source of hope, peace and even salvation if we are open to them and if we welcome them. Vanier has written prolifically about the mission and spirituality of L‘Arche. In some lectures given at Harvard, he makes a comment that I think might help us get at what’s going on in today’s texts. That might give us a better sense of how we find this road through the desert that will take us home. Vanier says: People may come to our communities because they want to serve the poor; they will only stay once they have discovered that they themselves are the poor.
Talk about the deep, dark dangerous wilderness! That is not something most of us want to discover. In fact, we spend enormous amounts of energy convincing ourselves of exactly the opposite. We work very hard to prove to ourselves and everyone else that we’ve got things covered. That we are good enough, strong enough, mature enough, economically secure enough, smart enough, lovable enough to lead successful, happy lives. And our society pushes us in every way imaginable—and in many ways that we can’t even imagine—to maintain and fortify these illusions with this car, that academic degree, this kind of clothing, that house in that neighborhood, this prep school for our children, that spiritual program, this romantic relationship, and on and on.
The people Jesus is talking about have an extra-hard time holding onto these illusions. For Vanier, it is the developmentally disabled. Jesus includes the blind, the paralyzed, the deaf, those with communicable diseases, the poor, even the dead. And the psalm for today talks about the oppressed, the hungry, those who are bowed down, the orphan, the widow. These people know that they aren’t enough. They’re on the fringes of society and every time they walk out into public they get smacked in the face by outside-ness. By their own fragility and vulnerability.
In this way, they can guide us to God. They are the road through the desert that can take us home. They take us there by opening us to the truth of our own poverty. There’s the kicker. If it were really just about helping the poor, it wouldn’t be so bad. A little annoying, but do-able. Unfortunately, though, Jesus calls us to seek out the poor, to reach out to them because when we do, we will eventually be confronted with our own blindness, our own deafness, our own paralysis, our own inability to speak what we truly want to communicate. We don’t want to walk that road. Everything in us recoils from that, we’ve spent our whole lives trying to forget our own vulnerability, so much so that we associate it with death. And in some ways it is a death.
But let’s not forget the pink—the way that looks like death, like dying of thirst or being devoured by wild beasts—will be a place of safety, with abundant blossoming- as much as the crocus, where waters gush forth and no one goes astray. And our impairment, our incompleteness will be made whole—God will heal us and restore us to our truest, deepest, most precious selves. This is the God who comes at Advent. This God comes as an infant, with no defenses, no plan of attack. This God invites us to take off our own armor, to step out of the cages of our carefully constructed defenses and to live in freedom. This God beckons us into poverty, into weakness, brokenness because that’s where we’ll find God’s healing, companioning presence. Vanier says it like this: Our God is not a God who wants to hurt us. Our God wants us to be free, to be happy, to be joyful, even to be ecstatic. The big question is: where and how do we find this joy? This is precisely the secret of the gospel. We discover the immense joy God wants for us by meeting Jesus in the poorest, the weakest, and the most broken. Gaudete! Be joyful!
We're finishing the week of "Gaudete"--"Be Joyful", in the midst of the culture's demands of the season, in a time of anxiety and uncertainty. It has been a fragile time in the parish. But faithful joy is not a matter of just "cheering up." It is found in the reality of our lives. We were gifted with a stunning sermon this past Rose Sunday by Rev. Tamara Yates, and the text is below--kn
3 Advent A RCL
Today is the Sunday in Advent when we get to be joyful. Our candle today is pink, beckoning us to a lightheartedness in the midst of the more somber purples of the season. Our Old Testament text from Isaiah is sort of like that too—a brief flash of pink in a purple sea of pain and suffering. Isaiah was preaching to the Israelite people when they were in exile in Babylon—uprooted from their homes, their land, the religious context of their temple, they were forcibly taken to a foreign land. To these dire circumstances, Isaiah spoke of a way, a highway, a road through the desert that would lead them back home. Even though the road passes through the deepest, darkest, most dangerous parts of the wilderness, Isaiah promised that no one, not even fools would go astray. That no wild beast would devour anyone, and that water would gush forth and beautiful blossoms abound. That God would save God’s people and lead them home safely. “And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.” Gaudete! Be joyful! It sounds great! And we certainly know about exile. It is all around us: geographic exile of refugees—forced from their countries and having to learn a new language, new customs, new everything; exile from family in this transient and mobile society; exile from our deepest, truest selves. How do we find this road home? This road that will lead us away from exile and to this everlasting joy. From the disconnect we feel in our world and in our own lives to something more real and life-giving? In the text, the people who are walking this road, are the blind—who can now see, the deaf—who can now hear, the paralyzed who are leaping like the deer, and the mute—now singing for joy. That’s great for them, but what about the rest of us? How do we get there?
In our gospel reading, Jesus doesn’t seem to offer much help with this question. John sends a similar inquiry from prison, Are you the one who is to come or should we be waiting for another? Are you going to lead us to this highway, to this path that will turn everything around, that will overturn the injustice we see all around us? Violence is escalating around the world from Iraq to Afghanistan to Darfur. Our environment is suffering. Our children go without healthcare. People all over the planet are starving. And so we ask with John: Are you sure you’re the one who’s going to turn all this around? Or should we be looking for another? But Jesus doesn’t even seem to answer the question. He just goes back to these blind and otherwise impaired people. All he says is that blind people are made to see, deaf people are made to hear, those who are paralyzed are walking, the lepers are cleansed, the poor have the good news preached to them. As a matter of fact, he seems to talk about these folks a lot—in the beatitudes, they are the poor in spirit, and later in Matthew 25 they are the least of these – the hungry, those in prison, the people who don’t have enough money for clothes. These are not the people who are affecting global politics—Jesus, you’re not gonna get very far with these folks. In fact, they don’t seem to have much to do with anything in our lives. What on earth do these people—these nameless, faceless, weak and defenseless people have to do with salvation? What role could they possibly have to play in God’s coming to save us and to bring us this everlasting joy?
As many of you know, I am an assistant at the L’arche community here in Portland: L’Arche Nehalem. L’Arche is an organization that was founded in 1964 in France by a man named Jean Vanier. It is a place where people with developmental disabilities and assistants who are not disabled live, work and pray together-where they create home together. It is a community built upon the belief that people with a developmental disability are uniquely equipped to reveal that human suffering and joy can lead to growth, healing and unity. That these folks have an incredible gift to give our world, that they can be a source of hope, peace and even salvation if we are open to them and if we welcome them. Vanier has written prolifically about the mission and spirituality of L‘Arche. In some lectures given at Harvard, he makes a comment that I think might help us get at what’s going on in today’s texts. That might give us a better sense of how we find this road through the desert that will take us home. Vanier says: People may come to our communities because they want to serve the poor; they will only stay once they have discovered that they themselves are the poor.
Talk about the deep, dark dangerous wilderness! That is not something most of us want to discover. In fact, we spend enormous amounts of energy convincing ourselves of exactly the opposite. We work very hard to prove to ourselves and everyone else that we’ve got things covered. That we are good enough, strong enough, mature enough, economically secure enough, smart enough, lovable enough to lead successful, happy lives. And our society pushes us in every way imaginable—and in many ways that we can’t even imagine—to maintain and fortify these illusions with this car, that academic degree, this kind of clothing, that house in that neighborhood, this prep school for our children, that spiritual program, this romantic relationship, and on and on.
The people Jesus is talking about have an extra-hard time holding onto these illusions. For Vanier, it is the developmentally disabled. Jesus includes the blind, the paralyzed, the deaf, those with communicable diseases, the poor, even the dead. And the psalm for today talks about the oppressed, the hungry, those who are bowed down, the orphan, the widow. These people know that they aren’t enough. They’re on the fringes of society and every time they walk out into public they get smacked in the face by outside-ness. By their own fragility and vulnerability.
In this way, they can guide us to God. They are the road through the desert that can take us home. They take us there by opening us to the truth of our own poverty. There’s the kicker. If it were really just about helping the poor, it wouldn’t be so bad. A little annoying, but do-able. Unfortunately, though, Jesus calls us to seek out the poor, to reach out to them because when we do, we will eventually be confronted with our own blindness, our own deafness, our own paralysis, our own inability to speak what we truly want to communicate. We don’t want to walk that road. Everything in us recoils from that, we’ve spent our whole lives trying to forget our own vulnerability, so much so that we associate it with death. And in some ways it is a death.
But let’s not forget the pink—the way that looks like death, like dying of thirst or being devoured by wild beasts—will be a place of safety, with abundant blossoming- as much as the crocus, where waters gush forth and no one goes astray. And our impairment, our incompleteness will be made whole—God will heal us and restore us to our truest, deepest, most precious selves. This is the God who comes at Advent. This God comes as an infant, with no defenses, no plan of attack. This God invites us to take off our own armor, to step out of the cages of our carefully constructed defenses and to live in freedom. This God beckons us into poverty, into weakness, brokenness because that’s where we’ll find God’s healing, companioning presence. Vanier says it like this: Our God is not a God who wants to hurt us. Our God wants us to be free, to be happy, to be joyful, even to be ecstatic. The big question is: where and how do we find this joy? This is precisely the secret of the gospel. We discover the immense joy God wants for us by meeting Jesus in the poorest, the weakest, and the most broken. Gaudete! Be joyful!
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