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Yesterday was the feast of the Epiphany. We usually celebrate Epiphany by telling the story from Matthew’s gospel about the magi coming from foreign lands, following a star to worship “the child who is born King of the Jews.” We sing all those wonderful Epiphany carols, “We Three Kings of Orient are”, “The First Noel”, “As with gladness men of old did the guiding star behold” and so on.

We didn’t celebrate Epiphany this year … mostly because it fell on a Saturday. I figured none of you would want to come to church yesterday and then again today .… and honestly, I don’t blame you. I didn’t want to either!

None of the other gospels tell the story of the magi. It’s only in Matthew. Mark doesn’t have any story at all about Jesus’ birth. He jumps right in with John the Baptizer, and Jesus showing up to be baptized. That’s what we celebrate on the 1st Sunday after Epiphany—the Baptism of the Lord.

As I was reflecting on this over the last week, it occurred to me that for Mark, this is his epiphany story.

Do you remember what I said a month ago about the opening of Mark’s gospel? (Of course you do!) Mark titles his gospel, “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” I suggested that Mark’s whole gospel is the beginning of the good news, and that this good news story is completed in us and by us as we live as faithful followers of Jesus. We complete this good news story which begins in Jesus.

John the Baptizer is out at the Jordan river, baptizing, shouting that the people needed to repent, to change the way they were living. “Someone else is coming,” he repeats over and over again, “someone so cool I’m unworthy even to tie his shoes. My baptism just got you wet … he is going to set your life on fire.”

And then, just like that, Jesus shows up to be baptized. And the good news story of Jesus takes off.

The ministry of Jesus begins with baptism — just like our own ministry. Here’s part of the way in which we complete this good news story. Like Jesus, we are baptized. We are joined to a community. We become part of a covenant community, working and living together in partnership with God for the healing of the world.

Mark tells the story of Jesus’ baptism slightly differently than the other gospels. The way Matthew and Luke tell the story, everyone who is there sees the heavens opened and hears the voice.

Mark tells it differently. Only Jesus hears the words—“You are my son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” This is a moment of intimacy. Deep in his soul, Jesus is affirmed in his ministry. He knows at his core who he is.

That’s what it means when we say, “Remember your baptism and give thanks.” It’s not just about remembering the moment the water was poured over us. To remember our baptism is to know deep in our gut that we are God’s beloved, precious people. We remember our baptism, and we become more deeply aware that we are the apple of God’s eye. God chooses us. Nothing can make God give up on us. God is with us. God is for us, in every moment of our lives. Nothing in all creation can separate us from God’s love.

From the creation of the world, God has chosen to love us. From the beginning of time, God’s powerful love for us is real and deep. In every moment of our lives, God’s love surrounds us, lifts us, holds us, keeps us close.

This is what we choose to trust—that God is this deeply for us, that God holds us this profoundly, that God surrounds us with grace, compassion and love.

This deep trust becomes part of our DNA. Just as Jesus emerged from the water and felt it resonate to his core that he was God’s precious child, and God was joy, so we know it to our core. We are the people of God.

Now, remember again the title of Mark’s gospel. This is the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ. The good news is completed in us.

At his baptism, we see that Jesus himself is an epiphany. Jesus is the sign of God’s love. And we, as we live out our baptism, we also become an epiphany of God’s love in the world. We become a sign that God’s love is for all people, for all of creation. We are an epiphany of God in the world.

This is the challenge the gospel puts before us this week—to choose to live in such a way that we become signs of God’s love. That our lives might shine with God’s glory. That we choose to bear the light of Christ into the darkness of the world. That we choose to live as beloved daughters and sons of God. That we choose to treat all other people as the beloved daughters and sons of God.

We are an epiphany of God.

In us, God is breaking into the world.

As we live generously, God’s generosity is shown in us.

As we live with grace, God’s grace is shown in us.

As we live with compassion, so we show God’s compassion in the world.

As we reach out to make the lives of other people better, God’s hope is shown in us.

As we live with joy, we are proclaiming God’s love for the world.

We find all of this in our baptismal covenant:

As we do so, we are an epiphany of God. We reveal God. We show God to the world. We are a manifestation of God.

Therefore, beloved daughters and sons of God, remember your baptism and give thanks. In everything you do, show the love, grace, compassion and joy of God. You are epiphanies of God.

One final word. You don’t need to be baptized to be a child of God. All you have to do is be born. That is enough.

But we baptize as a way of reminding ourselves of that eternal truth. We baptize to make visible the truth that we are all a beloved and cherished child of God, that we all are sacred vessels who contain the holy.

We baptize to remember our mission to live as epiphanies of God.

We are beloved sons and daughters of God. God accepts us, blesses us, acknowledges our worth, and sends us out to live with grace and joy.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

January 7, 2018 (1st Sunday after Epiphany, Baptism of the Lord)

Mark 1: 4–11

Genesis 1: 1–5

Acts 19: 1–7

 

 

The first Sunday after Christmas is all about praise. The thing about praise is that it’s not something to talk about so much … it’s something to do.

Gloria in excelsis Deo! (Taizé)

Just look at old Simeon and old Anna in the Temple. They should be in Joseph Creek, but here they are in the Temple, holding this newborn baby, dancing as well as their old legs will let them, and singing their songs of praise.

“Now you can let me go, loving God,” sings Simeon. “Now my life is made whole and good. With my own eyes, I’ve seen your salvation, a light to reveal you to all people.”

Hear his croaky old voice cackling with glee as he sings that God has kept the promise. Finally. Finally. Now his life is full.

And look at old Anna over there. She was ancient, and she’d been waiting forever, just like old Simeon. And now … here was the child. Here was God’s love. Here was God’s very self.

And listen to Isaiah. “I’m going to sing for joy to God. My praise is going to explode from deep in my soul. Look at me … I’m wearing the robe of salvation; I’m putting on my top hat of joy and praise; I’m stepping into God’s love.”

They’re all singing for joy.

But there’s more. Psalm 148 urges all of creation to join in the song of praise—sun and moon, shining stars, fire and hail, snow and fog and wind, the Rockies and the Purcells, Mount Fisher, the Community Forest, cows and horses, deer and puppies—all of creation singing God’s praise.

Shall we join in? Gloria in excelsis Deo! (Taizé)

This is what happens when God hangs around, when God is doing God’s thing, when God moves into the neighbourhood. People can’t seem to contain themselves. They sing and dance. They open their mouths, and songs drop out. They join in the dance of life with a God who can’t get enough of us.

That’s what inspires people like Simeon and Anna and Isaiah and Mary and Joseph and Martin Luther King and Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu and Jean Vanier and you … and me.

Let’s join in — Gloria in excelsis Deo! (Taizé)

In this festival of Christmas, we celebrate. There’s lots of happiness in this season. But I think there’s something deeper than that … there’s joy.

Joy and happiness are similar in lots of ways. But joy, I think, is deeper.

Let’s go back to Simeon and Anna. They are both so old. Both of them have been waiting forever for God’s promise to be fulfilled. I can imagine how often they might have been tempted to give up, to think that God’s promise was nothing more than a figment of their imagination, nothing more than a pipe dream.

So how did they do it? What sustained them during this endless waiting? It’s so easy to lose heart when you wait that long.

That kind of waiting isn’t filled with a lot of happiness. I suspect that what sustained them was that they adopted an attitude of joy. They made a choice. They decided to hope. They determined to trust in God’s purposes. Joy trusts deeply that the promise of light is true. Joy trusts deeply that the darkness will not overcome it. Indeed, joy trusts deeply that the darkness simply cannot extinguish the light.

Happiness is a more momentary thing. I’m happy when something goes my way, or when I get a gift I was looking forward to receiving. Happiness springs up like that … but it withers just as quickly.

Joy, however, is a choice. Yes it is true that there’s lots of sadness in our world, lots of pain, lots of sorrow, lots of violence and prejudice. Though we proclaim the light has come, the world is still terribly dark.

We could choose to let that undermine us. We could choose just to give up. Or we can choose hope. We can choose joy. We can choose to trust God, and then work with God.

So when I’m going through a time of loss, joy holds me up. When I am feeling overwhelmed, joy cradles me. When God seems absent, when I can no longer discern God’s presence, joy carries me. In the midst of sorrow, joy brightens the horizon. When I lose my way, joy leads me home. When my soul is empty, joy nurtures me. When I am weary, joy mends my broken heart and my broken soul. When the darkness threatens to overcome me, joy lightens my way. When fear makes me weak, joy gives me courage to act.

The heart of this is simple … joy, like hope, empowers us. Joy strengthens us to act

We choose joy, even when happiness isn’t anywhere to be seen. And then, joy sings. Joy trusts. Joy bursts out in praise. Joy lives in the moment, relishes the moment. Joy waits for God to show up. And then, like old Simeon, joy holds salvation in our arms and helps us shine like beacons in the world.

So, along with all people, along with all creation … we sing. We have heard good news … of great joy.

Gloria in excelsis Deo! (Taizé)

And, when you think about it, that’s not such a bad way to enter a new year.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

December 31, 2017 (1st Sunday after Christmas)

Luke 2: 22–40

Isaiah 61:10–62:3

Galatians 4: 4–7

 

Advent is over. The time of waiting has ended. Our preparation is finished. Today, we celebrate the birth of a child. Today, we delight in the Light of the world. In hushed tones of joy, our hearts are filled with wonder and we sing, “Jesus is born. In excelsis Gloria!”

The good news of Christmas is that God comes close.

Last night, we told Luke’s evocative story of a pregnant teenager, choirs of angels singing “peace on earth”, shepherds rushing to the place where the baby lies. We sang with the angels. We danced with the shepherds. We stood silently with Mary and Joseph as they ponder everything that has happened to them, changing their lives forever.

And today, with John, our voices ring out with the good news that “the eternal Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighbourhood. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.”

It’s an odd kind of claim to make. Every other major world religion keeps its God at a distance. But not us. It is an odd claim, but a profound one … that God comes close.

But let’s not make this claim in any triumphalistic kind of way. God comes close. Or as John puts it, the light shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot extinguish it. At the same time, we must be honest that the darkness still lingers.

Our songs of joy are tinged with a little bit of lament. We dance, but it’s the slower dance of men and women who bear sadness within us. We sing with the angels about peace on earth with tears streaming down our faces because we know full well that peace does not yet reign on earth.

Christian faith is a faith for a real world. We speak in tones of hope, not certainty. We sing of a God who works among the weak and the vulnerable, not among the powerful and the movers and shakers. We proclaim that God’s kingdom has come, but we know it is not fully here yet. We trust a God who promises to work in us … through us … believe it or not. And we make a commitment to work with this God.

At Christmas, we celebrate God’s presence in the world … but God comes as a vulnerable child … a child who will grow and live in poverty among a poor and oppressed people … a child who will be executed by the powerful as a convicted criminal.

So when we sing … when we dance … when we proclaim … we do so with a sense of yearning, a sense of longing, an aching hope that the good news we sing and say and celebrate will indeed come to pass.

To use Leonard Cohen’s wonderful phrase, we sing “a broken hallelujah”. We live in an “in–between time”—between anticipation and fulfillment, between promise made and promise kept.

We yearn for God’s reign to become reality. We long for God’s promise to be completely fulfilled. We hunger for justice to fill the earth, and for compassion to sweep across the globe. We hope for God’s love to come and hold us in its warm embrace.

Frederick Buechner reminds us that we need to “obey the sadness of our times.” We all know the sadness of our world. I don’t need to rehearse it for you today. But let’s not turn away from it in denial. This is part of the reality of our world.

Our culture doesn’t like sadness. Our culture prefers to focus on houses twinkling in the darkness, on trays loaded with more turkey than we can possibly eat, on Christmas trees standing guard over piles of gifts.

But Christian faith is a faith for a real world. We also see the homeless, the hungry, the addicted, the lonely and anxious people. We obey the sadness of our times.

We are able to do so because we trust God. Good News is not pumped out over blaring speakers. It is swaddled in a manger among a poor people, attended by outsider shepherds. We wait at that manger, obeying the sadness of our times, heavy with broken stories and broken lives. We celebrate a broken body and call him Lord. We hold a flickering candle, and we call it the Light of the world.

Today we sing “Joy to the world, the Lord is come”. We must also continue our Advent song, “O come, O come, Emmanuel”. The two songs belong together. We celebrate the birth of Christ, even while we long for it to be made fully real among us.

A poem reads,

He came singing love;

He lived singing love;

He died singing love;

He rose in silence.

If the song is to continue,

We must do the singing.

We wait for healing to touch the world with its warmth. We work to be peaceful people in our world. We live with compassion and generosity as people who trust God’s abundance. We work so that dignity may flourish in the streets of all our cities. We seek to live as a people of hope and grace and love.

Joy to the world, the Lord is come. O come, O come, Emmanuel.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

December 25, 2017 (Christmas Day)

John 1: 1–14

Isaiah 52: 7–10

Hebrews 1: 1–4

Let me tell you a story. A grungy–looking young couple are hitch–hiking on a lonely road. She looks to be about grade 11, and he is unshaven and disheveled. They may be gypsies or street people or refugees. The young woman is very pregnant and in obvious distress; the young man holds her protectively as they trudge along the side of the road.

A long–haul trucker stops to pick them up. He’s overweight, has a 4–day shadow on his face, and chomps on nuts and snacks as he drives. The young woman moans occasionally as the young man cradles her. The trucker, named Cioban, looks at the young couple with some concern.

They pull into a truckers’ rest stop at the side of the highway. The young man leads the girl to the washroom. Another truck pulls in, and a hooker comes out to flirt with the younger truck driver, hoping for some business. The lights outside the washroom flicker and go out with a pop. We are left in darkness.

You know something’s going on … but what? In the stillness of the night, we hear a baby’s cry. Cioban peers in through the open door of the washroom, and his face is wreathed in a miraculous smile as he sees the young woman holding her newborn baby to her chest. He takes out his phone and snaps pictures. The other truck driver and hooker come in, staring in wonder at what has happened. The hooker covers the baby and shivering young mother with her coat.

They set up a small camp outside the washroom facility around a small fire pit. A couple of cops stop to check things out; the truck driver shows them his phone with a goofy smile on his face, “It’s a boy! It’s a boy!” The lights on the washroom facility flicker on again.

The story is told in a beautiful video prepared by the Reformed Church in Hungary.  The video is called “Real Christmas”.

We celebrate a simple story tonight. The heart of this very simple story is that God loves us. Whenever God is present in the world, life is made holy and good. When God is present, even a restroom at a truck stop becomes holy ground.

The good news which we celebrate tonight is that God doesn’t come to punish or reward us according to what we’ve done; God doesn’t come to check up on us; God doesn’t keep a list of those who have been naughty and those who have been nice. That’s Santa. He’s a bad news dude.

God comes to love us. No matter who we are, no matter what we’ve done, God loves us. God knows the best of us and the worst of us and will not let us go. We are loved. There is nothing we can do to make God love us any less. There is nothing we can do to make God love us any more.

That’s the story of the gospel, and it begins with this birth of a child who changes everything.

It’s a simple story, and the power of it is that it works its way into our hearts and souls. It has a cast of characters who are just ordinary people:

In these ordinary people, in this simple story, we see ourselves. God came into the lives of these very ordinary people. God also comes into our ordinary lives. God shows up in all the ordinary events of our lives.

We gather tonight to celebrate the wondrous birth of a child who embodies our hopes and fears. We come to the manger and learn once again that God’s love is for everyone, and most especially for those who don’t feel loved, for those who feel like they’re on the outside looking in, for those who wonder if life has any point. We come to the manger and feel the stirrings of the birth of this child within us.

It’s such a simple thing. From the very beginning, the story of our faith is that God loves us with an abiding passion that never ends. God says, “I am your God. You are my people. I will never stop loving you. I will never let you go.”

We come to the manger and the child is born—in us. The infinite God accepts the limitations of our humanity. God is with us. The child grows and reaches out to everyone. The child teaches us to live with grace and compassion. The child beckons us to learn the ways of love and compassion and to live with grace as we follow. The child, who is the Light of the world, shines in … and then shines through us as we go into the world.

And whenever the child is born again in children and women and men, whenever the light glows through us, we are changed and the world is made new and whole.

It’s a simple thing.

And what a profound joy it is for our world. This truly is “good news of great joy … for all people.”

Jesus is born into this world—for us, for all of us. Jesus is the sign of God’s love—for us, for all of us.

And this child changes everything.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

December 24, 2017 (Christmas Eve)

Luke 2: 1–20

Isaiah 9: 2–7

Every Advent, one of the main characters who shows up is John the Baptist. (Of course, I prefer to think of him as John the Anglican rather than John the Baptist! But that’s another story …)

Last week, we read Mark’s story of John the Baptizer. Mark painted him in all his glory as the wild man of the desert, baptizing everyone who came, preaching about their need to repent. In Mark, John is a charismatic figure, who drew the crowds to him: “People from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him.” He was a fiery preacher and powerful prophet who has a ministry in his own right.

The 4th Gospel portrays John quite differently. It’s quite remarkable how different that portrait is. He’s not even called the Baptist. “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.”

We go on to read in the 4th gospel that John’s main role is to be a witness: “He came as a witness to testify to the light … he himself was not the light; he came to testify to the light.” If all we had was this gospel, we might well call him John the Witness.

The man named John is out at the river Jordan. The religious authorities go out there to challenge him. They are the guardians of orthodoxy. They are charged to keep the public order, and John is a disruptive force. “Who are you? What are you doing? Who told you you could do it? Who gave you the right?”

John responds quite clearly, “I am not the Messiah. I am not the prophet. I am not the one who is coming. I’m here for only one purpose—a voice crying out  to prepare the way for the one coming after me.”

This is John’s role in the 4th Gospel. He testifies. He is a witness. Giving witness is one of the central themes of the 4th Gospel. The church is sent out into the world to be a witness. We who follow Jesus are called to be witnesses.

We are called to witness to a God who gives us life in all its abundance. We are called to witness to the light.

This is part of our preparation in Advent. That’s why we light candles each Sunday of Advent. We begin with one flickering candle. As the season progresses, we add a second candle … then a third … and finally next week a fourth.

Then, at the culmination of Advent, we enter the celebration of Christmas, we celebrate the birth of our Saviour, and we light the Christ candle. The whole world is ablaze with the Light of Christ. At the end of each service on Christmas Eve, we light our own candles from the Christ Candle, and we are charged to go out into the world, bearing the light which we have been given.

Our preparation during Advent is so that we might become more clearly people of the light. The light is growing in us. Each week, we go into the world and point to the signs of God’s light wherever we see them in our world. Like John, we become witnesses, seeing God in every act of kindness and grace and love.

I think this “learning to see” is a large part of what it means to be a follower of Jesus. Richard Beck reminds us that the kingdom of God is more about perception than it is about learning to be moral. In other words, being a follower of Jesus is about learning to see God at work in the world. It is not so much about becoming good people, or more moral people. Being Christian is about learning to see. We learn to see other people through the eyes of God. We learn to see the world through the eyes of God. We learn to see our lives through the eyes of God.

Being a witness is about learning to see, and then telling others what we have seen. It’s about discerning where God is present, where God is at work in our lives and in our world. It’s about learning to see deeply into the heart of reality and knowing that God is there.

We are people of God. We are people of the light. We are witnesses of what God has done in our own lives, and we want to share that story with others.

John points to the one who is coming and helps us learn to see. John points to the light wherever the light shines in the world.

The whole Bible is like that. It is filled with people who help us learn to see.

Listen to Isaiah’s witness: “The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me … to bring good news to those who are oppressed, to bind up the broken–hearted, to proclaim freedom to the captives,  to comfort all who mourn, and to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.”

In a world where we hear enough bad news, Isaiah invites us to see those places in our lives and in our world where God’s goodness and grace are being born. Isaiah invites us to proclaim freedom and grace, comfort and hope. We are called to witness to God’s love in action all around us. See … really see … what God is doing.

Mary does the same thing. “My soul magnifies the Lord, who has done great things for me. God has lifted up the lowly, filled the hungry, and sent the rich away empty.” Mary invites us to see how God’s reign is overthrowing the rule of the powers that be in our world. Mary sings of a world made new, a world of justice and hope and well–being for all people. See … really see … what happens when we live within the reign of God.

So this morning, along with John, Isaiah and Mary, I also invite you to see:

See. Really see. See God at work.

Then testify. Tell the story. Share what God has done in your life. Witness to what you see God doing in our world.

God’s life is being born in our world. God’s light shines in the darkness, no matter how faintly.

And when we see God at work, when we become witnesses of all that God is doing, we are preparing God’s way. We begin to act as midwives for the birth of hope in our world. We embrace and share the true life of God.

And then, like Mary, like Isaiah, like John, we begin to sing of the transformation of the world. When God is present, life is made whole and good, not just for some—but for everyone. When we live out God’s gospel purposes, there will no longer be those who have and those who have not. When we work with God for the healing of the world, there will no longer be the strong bullying the weak. When we honour God in all that we do, when we see and testify, when we prepare, the vulnerable will no longer be harassed and traumatized by the powerful.

All will be embraced. All will be made whole. All will be filled with life. All will receive life in all its abundance.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

December 17, 2017 (3rd Sunday of Advent)

John 1: 6–8, 19–28

Isaiah 61: 1–4, 8–11

1 Thessalonians 5: 16–24

 

 

The Way of Good News

I want to begin with a brief history lesson. That’s important, because it sets the gospel in a context. Let me begin at the year 70. It was a momentous year for Jews and Christians.

About 130 years earlier, when the Roman Empire was expanding, Rome’s armies marched into Palestine. Like any empire, Rome’s rule was oppressive, exploitative and brutal. It ruled through violence.

The Roman Empire also legitimized its rule with religious claims. It dominated the world, it said, because that was God’s will. They called their emperor Son of God, Lord, Saviour of the world, the One who brings peace to the world.

This language is very familiar to us. It was the language used by the early to describe Jesus. But it’s important to be aware that Rome used the same language for Caesar.

When Caesar claimed to be divine, it was utter blasphemy for faithful Jews. There was only one God … and his name was not Caesar.

So about 4 bc, the Jews revolted against Rome. Rome responded with great brutality. They destroyed the cities and crucified some 2,000 Jewish defenders of Jerusalem. The streets were littered with crosses.

Now here we are 70 years later, and it’s a;; happening again. There was another Jewish revolt in the year 66. The Roman armies stationed in Syria marched south and re–conquered Galilee. They marched to Jerusalem, laying the land waste. Now, in the year 70, Jerusalem lay in ruins and the Temple had been completely demolished.

It was the greatest catastrophe in the history of ancient Judaism. The holy city was destroyed and devastated. Thousands upon thousands of Jews were killed … and the first Christians were not spared. Rome made no distinction between Jews and Christians.

Most significantly, the Temple was gone. This was God’s home. God had promised to protect Jerusalem and the temple forever. And now, the temple was gone. Faithful Jews could no longer offer sacrifices to God.

The Jewish revolt was a political act. But it was more than that. It was also a rejection of Roman imperial theology. It affirmed that only God was the true Lord. Jews and Christians both agreed on this.

Very shortly after that disaster, an anonymous follower of Jesus named Markos put down in writing some of the stories about Jesus that were told in his community.

These days, we tend to think of authors as men or women who are writing something original, something they come up with. It was different in the ancient world. Mark wasn’t innovating. He is writing down how he and his community saw things, how they understood and told the story of Jesus. Mark was writing a story which they had been telling for many years.

The only innovation was that Mark was the very first person to do this. No one else had put the story about Jesus in writing before.

We don’t know much about Mark. The only thing we can say with any reasonable certainty is that Mark and his community lived in northern Galilee or southern Syria — the very place where Roman armies set out to re–conquer Palestine.

Mark, in the words of one scholar, is a “wartime gospel”. It comes from the time of the great Jewish revolt and its aftermath.

Mark, like all the other gospels, begins with an overture. But unlike Matthew and Luke, Mark doesn’t have a story about Jesus’ birth. Mark jumps right into the story. Jesus shows up for the first time as an adult on his way to the river Jordan, to be baptized by John the Baptizer. As he is baptized, Jesus has a vision of the Spirit descending on him. A voice from heaven declares, “You are my son.” Then he begins his ministry, preaching that God’s kingdom has come and calling disciples to “follow me”.

I wasn’t to focus on the very first line of Mark’s gospel. This is the title for Mark’s story: “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

Mark didn’t write “The Gospel According to Mark” at the top of his first page. That was added much later when there were other gospels, and we had to find some way to distinguish them.

His title is simply, “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

First of all, the news about Jesus is good news. It is such an obvious thing to say, but we often miss it because it’s so familiar. The story about Jesus is a good news story.

Ever since that time, the church has been charged to live out this good news. This is a story of joy and hope, a story which reorders our priorities as we seek to live in the kingdom of God. It is a story of grace, compassion and love for all.

In other words, Christian faith isn’t about living with a new set of rules. Christian faith is about becoming a gospel people. This good news is meant to shape our lives, and this news is so good we can’t help but share it.

For Anglicans, that means that we are a eucharistic people. Eucharist comes from the ordinary Greek word which means to give thanks. Because this news is so good, we give thanks in everything we do. We are thankful, grateful people. We are people who are fed with this good news, and in turn we go out to feed the world.

This is what feeds us—good news about Jesus, Son of God. Christians engage in eucharistic therapy, not retail therapy. We live out God’s gospel values, not the world’s consumerist values. We are people of good news, not people who give in to despair at the unhappiness in the world.

The prophet Isaiah also knew this. Comfort my people, says your God. Speak words of comfort and hope to my people, says your God. Live with grace and love with my people, says your God. Be people of hope, says your God.

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

As I noted in a sermon a few weeks ago, this good news is not just spiritual. It’s also deeply political. Remember what I said a few moments ago about Caesar? He was called Son of God, Lord, Saviour of the world, the one who brought peace to the world.

When Mark proclaims that this is good news about Jesus, the Son of God, he is also saying that Caesar is not the Son of God. Mark knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s poking the bear. Mark’s claim goes directly against Roman imperial theology. There is only one Son of God—and his name is Jesus, not Caesar Augustus. Only this Son of God can bring real peace to the world. Only this Son of God can bring righteousness and grace to the world. Only this Son of God is the content of good news for the world.

That means there’s going to be conflict between Rome and Jesus. That conflict will mean the execution of Jesus. Rome thinks it can bring peace by violence. But here we are, 2000 years later. Rome is nothing but a whisper in the wind. Today, 2000 years later, we worship the true Son of God, who brings peace through justice and grace.

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

Finally, this is the beginning of the good news. Mark could have written “The good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” But he didn’t. he wrote, “The beginning of the good news…”

That could mean three different things.

It could just mean that this is the beginning of the story I’m writing. Maybe … but I don’t think so.

Or it could mean that the story that Mark tells about John the Baptizer is the beginning of the story of Jesus, as if Mark were saying, “The story of Jesus begins with John.” Again, I don’t think so.

Or it could mean that this whole story is the beginning of the good news of God in the world. Mark’s whole gospel, this whole story of Jesus, is the beginning of the good news. It’s up to us to participate in writing the ending of this story. This good news story about Jesus continues to unfold in the lives of all those who hear…, who trust …, who follow …, and who live in the way of Jesus.

Good news is not just about the past. It’s about our present. It’s about how we live in the way of Jesus. We are completing this story as we live in the way of Jesus.

There we find the heart of Christian faith—it’s not so much about believing. It’s more about walking in a path. It’s more about journeying in this way. It’s more about following a person.

We are preparing the way of the Lord—which is partly to say that we are preparing ourselves to walk in the way of the Lord. And as we share good news, we prepare. As we live by God’s gospel values, we prepare. As we bear the light into the darkness of the world, we are preparing.

And there … you find the heart of Advent. We are preparing once again to walk in the way of the good news of Jesus.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

December 10, 2017 (2nd Sunday of Advent)

Mark 1: 1–8

Isaiah 40: 1–11

2 Peter 3: 8–15a

 

 

 

 

 

Waiting…

We are at the beginning of another year in the life of the church.

The church marks time differently than the world does. It seems a little strange to start a new year in early December. After all, January 1 is the beginning of the year, right?

In truth, though, we live by a number of different calendars. If you have school age children, the new year begins with Labour Day. Some businesses have year–end at the end of March. Chinese New Year usually comes in late winter or early spring. There are different calendars in our lives.

In the church’s calendar, Advent marks the beginning of a new year. Our life as the church is found in a rhythm of preparation, celebration, reflection and action.

We begin with a season of preparation in Advent. We prepare for what God is doing in our lives and our world. Then at Christmas, we take 12 days to celebrate the Light of the World. After the 12th day of Christmas, which we call Epiphany, we reflect on how we can respond to God’s love, and we act on it. God has given us gifts—how do we share those gifts with the world? God’s light shines in the world—how do we bear that light in the darkness? God has been born into our world—how do we nurture the life born in us?

Preparation … celebration … reflection and action.

It begins today. We anticipate … we watch … we prepare … we wait. Waiting is one of the prominent themes of Advent.

There are different kinds of waiting.

We wait in a lineup in a bank…or in the grocery store … or at the doctor’s office. Endless waiting. Why don’t they put more staff on at the teller or cash register? Why doesn’t the doctor manage her schedule more carefully? Personally, I hate that kind of waiting. I get impatient; it’s such a waste of time. So I carry a book around with me to fill the empty time.

A different kind of waiting … you’ve had some tests done, and now you are waiting for the results. Days and nights are filled with apprehension and worry. Am I sick? How bad is it? What’s going to happen to me? Questions … fears…anxieties.

Another kind of waiting — “Mommy, Mommy, are we there yet?” Eager children who can’t wait to get there. If we are honest, sometimes we feel that way too! The kind of waiting that says breathlessly, “Only 22 more days till Christmas!”

Yet a different kind of waiting … a woman learns that she is pregnant. For nine months she waits. She waits actively; her body is changing; life is growing within her and she participates actively in it all. There are some things she can do to help the pregnancy along. She can take care of herself … of her body. She prepares her nest. She rests … eats right … feels her body develop … watches and makes sure that she does everything she can so that the time of birth will be good for her and good for her child.

Waiting…

In Advent, we wait. We are preparing for birth.

On the one hand, we are preparing for Christmas. Along with the rest of the world, we buy gifts … we bake … we decorate the house and trim the tree … we clean house and plan parties … we do all kinds of things. This kind of preparation consumes an awful lot of time and energy; but it is fun and exciting. I love the lights and the decorations and the good will of the season.

But we are also waiting and preparing in a more reflective way. Sometimes the busyness in our lives overshadows our spiritual preparation. Spiritual preparation is harder to do … it takes time and stillness … it’s about looking within.

The word “Advent” means coming. We are preparing for the coming of Jesus. We talk about Jesus coming in three different ways.

Firstly, we talk about the historical coming of Christ. We celebrate the birth of the Christ–child at Christmas some 2000 years ago. We look back to the past, and celebrate that birth.

Secondly, we talk about the abiding presence of Jesus with us here and now. Jesus comes to us again and again, day by day, moment by moment. We wait for Jesus to come in the present, to be born in us anew with each passing day.

Thirdly, we wait for his final coming. The technical word for this is eschatology, which has to do with the goal of creation. Some people believe in a literal return of Jesus at the end of time. I don’t.

Part of the problem with this, of course, is that it’s been 2000 years. It’s hard to main that sense of anticipation for that long. Instead of a literal return, I tend to talk more about God working in partnership with God’s people so that God’s purposes of wholeness and justice are born in us for the healing of creation. For me, it’s a metaphor for living with expectancy … living with hope … living with assurance that God continues to show up in our lives. I love the way Martha Simmons puts it … “eschatology is where the sweet bye and bye meets the nasty here and now.”

Advent includes all three of these. We begin with the eschatological sense … at the beginning of the new year, we commit ourselves again to working with God for the healing of the world. We pray that Christ may come to us again and again, renewing us, transforming us, making us people of compassion and peace and wholeness.

That’s what these readings are about today. In the middle of exile, the prophet Isaiah cries out, “Oh, that you would tear open the heavens and come down.” It is the prayer of a powerless people, who have nowhere to turn. It is a prayer for God to come crashing into our world and set everything to rights again.

It could easily be our prayer. Our world is filled with darkness and despair:

It seems, some days, to be more than we can handle. This world is not right. Surely this weary world is not what God had in mind. Surely, God meant something more whole and complete … something different … something more healthy.

“Oh, that you would tear open the heavens and come down.” Or in the words of the Psalm, “Stir up your strength and come to help us!” There has got to be more than this.

The promise of Advent is that there is more. In the darkness of this world, there is a glimmer of light. A single candle chases the darkness away. In the midst of the hurt in our lives, hope us a real possibility. In the midst of pain the promise of healing comes.

The promise by which we live is that God is faithful. The promise of Advent is found in the trustworthiness of God. The promise of Advent is the promise of light in the darkness, life in the midst of death, hope in the midst of despair.

We wait for Jesus to come. Mark reminds us that we can’t ever know when that will be. We wait as a pregnant woman waits, nurturing the life that is growing within us. Advent is a time to watch more intentionally for glimpses of Jesus in our lives.

So we become a mindful people. Whenever we feed a hungry person, or visit a lonely person, or reach out in love to someone who needs to be affirmed, Jesus is present. In every act of generosity and grace, Jesus is present.

We become a pregnant people, waiting as the Christ takes form in us and gets ready to be born in us. As a pregnant people, we work with God to be transformed. We tend and nurture the life of the spirit within us. We keep on keepin’ on, working with God for the healing of the world.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

December 3, 2017 (1st Sunday of Advent)

Mark 13: 24–37

Isaiah 64: 1–9

1 Corinthians 1: 3–9

 

Politics and Religion

Every once in a while during my life as a priest and preacher, people would tell me, “Keep your politics out of the pulpit, preacher! Stick to religion!”

That’s the conventional wisdom isn’t it? You can’t mix politics and religion.

But that’s a problem on this last Sunday of the year when we celebrate the “Reign of Christ” or, as we used to call it, “Christ the King Sunday”. When you put “Christ” and “King” in the same phrase, you are mixing politics and religion right there.

So I want us to think about this a little differently today. I want to begin with something I said a month or so ago.

The was from Matthew, where they were trying to trap Jesus, and he asks for a coin. “Whose image?”  he asks. “The emperor,” they say. Jesus responds, In that case, give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and give to God what belongs to God.”

Some people think Jesus was separating life into two neat spheres, one labelled “secular” and the other labelled “sacred”. I suggested that Jesus never thought that way. You can’t separate life in sacred and secular realms. It all belongs to God. Everything in life belongs to God. All that we are, all that we say, all that we do—we do it in the presence of God. So when Jesus says to give to God, he’s talking about religion…and politics and economics and social life and everything that’s part of the way we live together.

We see a similar kind of thinking in today’s readings.

The opening verses of Ezekiel 34 condemn the “shepherds of Israel”—which is to say, Israel’s rulers. They were supposed to care for the people. But these rulers were more like Trump—they were in it only for themselves. They were the rich, like finance ministers who hide their money in offshore accounts. They passed legislation which benefitted their stock portfolios and enriched their cronies.

Therefore, says Ezekiel, God has had it with them. That’s where our reading began this morning—“Since you don’t take care of my flock, I myself will search for my sheep. I will seek them out. I will take care of them. I will rescue them. I will gather them to myself, and they will lie down in good grazing land, they will eat in rich pastures. I will seek the lost. I will bind up the injured. I will strengthen the weak.

“As for the fat and the rich, and the strong—I have had it with them. I will judge them. They butted the weak ones with their horns and scattered them, and now they will have their comeuppance.”

You can’t get more political than that. You can’t get more religious than that, either. God will be the good shepherd. God will take care of God’s people. God holds the oppressed and the marginalized within God’s embrace.

Then in Ephesians, we have a hymn to Christ reigning in glory. Christ is above all earthly rule, all earthly authority, all earthly power.

And how does Christ use that power and glory?

We read about that later in Ephesians—Christ’s work is to bind all people together. Christ’s work is to reconcile groups and nations. Christ’s work is to bring people together, and end any division among us. Christ’s work is to bring unity and reconciliation among all.

And our work as servants of Christ is to work together in love and peace, to work in partnership with Christ the King for the healing of the world. Our work is to live as citizens of that time and place where we live under the Reign of Christ. As people who are confident in God, we live according to God’s gospel values.

And what are those gospel values? One way to talk about God’s gospel values is what we read in the gospel this morning—“I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.”

Here’s the heart of the gospel: in the faces and lives of the least of the people around us, in the faces and lives of the least of our neighbours, in the faces and lives of the downtrodden and the lonely and the hungry—we see the face and life of God.

You can’t get more political than that. You can’t get more religious than that.

When we celebrate the Reign of Christ, we understand that we worship an odd sort of king. This is no king as we are used to. This king is a servant. This king’s throne is the cross. This king serves rather than ruling it over us.

And this king calls us to serve as well.

Notice what King Jesus says to the nations gathered before him in this scene: “As you did it for the least of these, you did it for me.” Or: “As you failed to do it for the least of these, you didn’t do it for me.”

Notice what Jesus didn’t say. He didn’t say, “You had the right or wrong political opinion about the least of these. You said the right or wrong prayers for the least of these. You had the right or wrong sense of empathy for the least of these.”

He said, “You fed me. You visited me. You welcomed me.”

4th century bishop and preacher John Chrysostom once said, “Jesus never said, ‘I was sick and you healed me; or I was in prison and you broke me out.’” King Jesus is not going to judge us on whether we accomplished extraordinary feats for the most vulnerable. King Jesus will only hold us accountable for such simple, ordinary acts as giving a meal, paying a visit, offering welcome.

But here’s the thing. In order to give a meal, we have to see and get close to those who are hungry. In order to visit a lonely person, we have to see that lonely person. In order to offer welcome, we have to open our hearts and our homes and our churches to people who may be different from us.

Also to the point is this: this is partly about personal action. We feed the hungry, we visit those who are lonely. But it also is partly about political action. We advocate for better housing for those who are homeless. We advocate for better education and health care, and for prison reform.

How much more political can you get? How much more religious can you get?

John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, once observed, “It is always better to carry aid than it is to send it.” The saints know that the poor don’t need our pity so much. They need our friendship. And, for heaven’s sake, we need theirs.

If we take these readings seriously, then we will know that the poor are the hope of the world. Why? Because through them, we encounter Jesus who was hungry when he was being tempted, naked and thirsty on his cross, a stranger among his people, and a prisoner by judicial decree.

Here is how we know the King of Kings: he was and still is the poor stranger among us.

As Desmond Tutu once put it, “The gospel is not about pie in the sky; it’s about pie in the here and now!”

As people of God who live in this world, we know that everything belongs to God.

On this last Sunday of the Church Year, we affirm that if we love God, then we will love as God loves. If our values are gospel–values instead of the world’s values, then we will give as God gives and forgive as God forgives. If Christ really is King, then we can’t help but live as Christ taught.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

November 26, 2017 (Last Sunday after Pentecost, “The Reign of Christ”)

Matthew 25: 31–46

Ezekiel 34: 11–16, 20–24

Ephesians 1: 15–23

 

How Do You See God?

Have you ever been in a fun house? You know the kind I mean, with the mirrors which distort you and make you look shorter or taller, fatter or thinner? I like the last one best—I could stand there all day. Of course, it’s an optical illusion.

There are all kinds of different optical illusions. You can find many here . With many of these pictures, some people will see one thing, while others see something completely different. There is some scientific research which tells us that we are predisposed to see these kinds of illusions in one way. We see what we are hardwired to see. Both images are there … but it takes work to see both sides.

The same is true in life. Our perceptions, how we see things, affects the way in which we interpret life. What we learned early on determines how we will see the world for the rest of our lives.

That’s partly what this parable is about.

The conventional interpretation of this parable is that it encourages us to discover our gifts and talents, and to use them for God—or else! Taken this way, it teaches that everyone has a talent; some have many, others a few, but all of us have at least one. Perhaps you can play the piano; or maybe you have the gift of hospitality, or the skill of organization. Regardless of how many talents we may have, and whatever they may be, God wants us to use them wisely and not waste them.

So goes the conventional interpretation. And there’s nothing wrong with the idea that we should use our talents to glorify God.

But let’s consider another possibility. Let’s think together for a moment about the character of this master, and how the slaves react to him.

We don’t know much about the master, except that he’s enormously rich. He’s part of the 1%. More accurately, he’s part of the 0.1%. He hands out enormous sums of money to his slaves. The Greek word ταλαντον (talanton) doesn’t mean a talent or a gift. It designates a sum of money. One talanton was the equivalent of almost 20 years wages.

Let’s say you earn $50,000 a year. One talent represents $1 million. A fortune! It’s an unimaginably huuuuuuuge sum of money, especially for the poor peasants who would have heard Jesus tell this parable.

The master prepares to go on a journey. Now that the snow has come, he’s going south for the winter. He entrusts his fortune—$8 million—to three slaves. The first two go out and double their master’s money. The third one hides it in a hole in the ground.

When the master comes home, the first two proudly present their profits, and the master praises them lavishly. If the story were to end there, we would think that this was a wise master—trusting, welcoming, generous and benevolent.

But the story doesn’t end there. The third slave steps onto the stage—and he sees the master very differently. “I knew you were a harsh man; you reap where you do not sow; you demand the best, you make no allowance for mistakes, so I hid your money. See? Here it is, right down to the last cent.”

Do you see what’s happening here? Each of these slaves sees the master differently, and how they see him determines how they react to him.

We still don’t know a whole lot about the master—but we have come to know quite a bit about these slaves.

The first two didn’t have any problems with him. They took his money, invested it, took some risks, and came out ahead.

But the third one acted out of fear. He cowered in his boots. He was afraid, and his life was small and stunted and narrow because his vision was small and stunted and narrow.

Reading the parable this way leads me to ask, how do we see God? What image of God do we hold in our heads and in our hearts?

If we imagine God as an enforcer of rules, then our faith will be about keeping a set of rules and requirements. If we visualize God as stern and ready to punish us at a moment’s notice, then we will come to believe that everything bad in our lives is somehow a punishment from God. If we see God as arbitrary and capricious, then we will live in fear that God might zap us at any time.

I grew up this way. I was in a church which said that to be a Christian was to keep all the rules. We learned that we had better not screw up, or God was going to get us. What we learned was that we better watch out, we better not cry, we better not pout—or else.

What you see is what you get.

But if we learn to see God in terms of grace and compassion, then all the moments of grace and compassion will lift us up, will surprise us, will make our heart glow with grace. We will learn to see life as a gift. If we imagine God to be a God of love, we will find it far easier to experience God’s love in our own lives and to share it with others. If we see God with a heart of compassion which holds us up and encircles us with love, then we will learn to live with the same compassion, reaching out to those who are in pain and those who are lonely and those who have been cast out to the margins of our society.

Reading the parable this way invites us to examine how we see God.

So let me ask again: How do you see God? Is God gracious? Or stern? Is God loving? Or judgmental? Is God eager for us to live in peace? Or is God prone to violence?

How do you see God?

And then, how does that image of God shape your life? How does that shape your prayer? How does that shape the way you live with other people?

If we hold an image of God as good and faithful and generous, then we can learn to live boldly as gracious and grace–ful people, who venture in faith with eyes wide open to the grace of God in our lives. We will see signs of God’s providence in every part of our lives.

But if we insist on seeing God as oppressive, cruel and fear–provoking, we will live a tragically impoverished life.

Those who live in the confidence that God is trustworthy and generous will find more and more of that generosity; but those who run and hide under the bed from a bad, mean and scolding God—they’ll end up hiding under the bed alone, quivering in needless fear.

How do you see God?

 

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

November 19, 2017 (24th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 33)

Matthew 25: 14–30

1 Thessalonians 5: 1–11

Judges 4: 1–7

 

Listening for a Pin to Drop

(inspired by a sermon by Tripp Martin)

I remember when I was a kid, I got some walkie talkies for my birthday. I put in the double AA batteries, found my friend Jimmy, and we spent the whole next day running all over the place to test them out. We went to opposite sides of the house. One of us went out to the back yard and the other to the front. We spent the day imagining we were on a secret mission to save the world.

Jimmy would call, “This is Redhawk. This is Redhawk. Can you hear me? Over!” Apparently, you have to have a really cool nickname when you are using a walkie talkie. I said, “Jimmy, this is Yme—I mean Redhawk, this is LongJohnHotPants. I can hear you Redhawk. Over!”

He said, “LongJohnHotPants is too long of a name, pick something different.” I said, “No, it’s not. Over!” We spent the remainder of the afternoon, running around, hiding, and talking to one another on those walkie talkies.

I learned a couple of things early on—1) you had to be close enough to each other to get a good signal; and 2) you couldn’t yell into the walkie talkies. If you talked too loud, the other person only heard static. You had to slow down and talk softly to be heard.

And here’s the important thing for my point this morning—when you were listening, you had to be still and ignore everything around you. You couldn’t run from one place to another and still hear what was said. You had to slow down; you had to focus on the voice on the other end of the call.

Part of being the church is to learn how to listen in a world that only wants to speak.

We listen for all kinds of reasons, and it’s becoming increasingly hard in a world that likes to talk all the time.

We listen for information. Tablets and smart phones and computers are always sending out more information into the world, and sometimes, that’s like listening for your plane information in a very busy and noisy airport.

We also listen with a friend, to hear what she is really saying to us. We pay attention to their words, but also to their body language and their facial expressions. We listen deeply to hear what they’re really saying to us.

We also listen for discernment, sifting through the questions of life. We learn to slow down and listen, not to react quickly to every dilemma, but to respond thoughtfully and prayerfully. We learn to listen not only to speak, but so we can speak truthfully, kindly, and compassionately.

Listening, I think, is also at the heart of the church.

For me, that’s what worship is all about. We gather together and pause long enough to listen. When we sing, it is for our ears. When we read scripture, we are trying to hear what we have not heard before, or what we need to hear again. When we pray, we listen for God’s heart beating with the heart of the universe. After all my words in the sermon, we pause for a time of silence so that we can listen for the presence of God.

At least, that’s true in our Anglican worship. Other churches don’t take this kind of silence. They want worship bands and constant energy and all the same kind of visual and audio stimulation which they find in the world. One church in town says in its promotional literature that “if you’re looking for reverence, you should go somewhere else.”

Good! Come here! Worship with us! We slow down in worship. We take time. We make time. We are intentional about it, because I am convinced that it’s only as we slow down and be silent that we can actually listen for that still small voice.

This morning, our Psalm invites us, “Hear my teaching, O my people; incline your ears to the words of my mouth.” The Psalmist calls the people to slow down and listen … so that “we may recount to generations to come the praiseworthy deeds of the Lord.”

The thing is that God does continue to speak in our world and in our lives. Just as God speaks through parables and old sayings, God also opens our hearts to new ways of living shaped by God’s grace and compassion.

But if we are to hear God, we must learn to slow down, to stop speaking. In a world which knows only how to speak, we have to learn again how to listen.

Too often, we are busy speaking at each other, past one another, over each other, or about each other. Sometimes we listen only with half an ear because we are trying to think of what to say next.

But not with God. God is whispering to us, reminding us that we belong to God and to one another. In order to hear it, we must listen. In order to distinguish God’s voice among all the others, we must listen.

We are learning to recognize God’s voice in the silence of a walk in the forest. In birdsong in the evening. In the first light on the mountain peaks. In those unbidden thoughts that come to our hearts in the middle of the night.

We are learning to recognize God’s voice in moments of quiet. When a sudden thought causes us to stop and take notice. When the choir finishes singing and the beauty of the song fills the room and we do not have the words to describe it. When we hear something or feel something or experience something, and we know that we are in the presence of something holy.

We are learning to recognize God’s voice in acts of love. In works of justice and healing. In moments of compassion. Or at the end of worship when we turn to someone else and ask, “What did you think of worship today?” which is another way of asking, “What did you hear?”

What did you hear in the songs? In the prayers? In the people around you? In Scripture? In the sermon? In the silence? In coming forward for Communion? In the voice of the one who looked you in the eye and said, “Christ’s peace be with you”?

Do you hear whispers of forgiveness? Do you hear how everyone belongs? Do you hear the cries of some people who are in need? Do you hear how precious you are, that God cherishes you as a beloved son and daughter?

This is part of the work of the church—learning to listen. We do that here Sunday by Sunday so that we can better listen for those same things in the world. We learn to recognize God’s voice in worship so that we can also recognize God’s voice wherever kindness is spoken, wherever justice is needed, wherever humility is voiced, wherever compassion is given, or wherever community is formed.

In her book entitled Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking, Susan Cain tells the story of Rosa Parks, the woman who sparked the civil rights movement in the USA.

It happened in Montgomery, Alabama on December 1, 1955—62 years ago. She got on the bus after a long day of work, standing on her feet and leaning over an ironing board. She sat down on the front row of what was called the “colored section” of the bus. At each stop, more people got on until the “whites–only section” filled up. Then at the next bus stop more people got on, but there was no place to sit, so the driver ordered Rosa Parks to give her seat to a white passenger. She refused. Even when she was arrested, she refused to give up her seat. As a result, a boycott of the bus system was organized, which lasted for 381 days.

I believe it was a sacred moment, one in which she led other voices to speak up as well. We still hear her voice today.

In many of the obituaries written about Rosa Parks, Susan Cain noticed how she was often described as timid, shy, and quiet. But I believe Rosa Parks learned to speak up because she first knew how to listen.

God continues to speak. We quiet ourselves to listen. It’s like learning to listen for a pin to drop—but if we incline our ears to hear the voice of mercy and the need for justice, we will learn how to speak up as well, and tell the story of God’s grace to generations yet unborn.

And then we realize that we are learning to experience God’s voice as God speaks in us. Through us. Among us. We listen … so that we might learn to speak the truth of love and grace.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

November 12, 2017 (24th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 33)

Psalm 78: 1–7

Joshua 24: 1–3, 14–25

Matthew 25: 1–13

1 Thessalonians 4: 13–18