January 7, 2007

This is the first in a sermon series on the practices of the Christian faith; we focused on the practice of worship, and also celebrated epiphany.

Matthew 2:1-12

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.” When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet: ‘And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for from you shall come a ruler who is to shepherd my people Israel.’” Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.” (NRSV)

When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.





Magi from the East came to Jerusalem. That little phrase has fertilized the imagination of the church ever since Matthew first jotted down his version of Jesus’ birth. The details we adore about this tale were mostly conjured up in the centuries to follow. Matthew doesn’t tell us how many Magi made the journey— but tradition has assigned one wise man to each of the three gifts presented to the Christ child. Directors of Christmas pageants doled out camels for them to ride, and the British poet, Longfellow, christened them Melchior, Gaspar, and Balthasar. It’s easy to forget which of these details are rooted in biblical text, and which were added by faithful storytellers who spun a more vibrant yarn about the great journey to Bethlehem. Indeed, when I went to find the particular bible translation that inspired the title of my sermon, Home by Another Way, my search led me not to the King James Version or the New International Version, but the gospel according to James Taylor, the folksinger. His song by the same name begins: “Those magic men the magi/ Some people call them wise/ Or oriental, even kings/ Well anyway, those guys/ They visited with jesus/ They sure enjoyed their stay/ Then warned in a dream of king herods scheme/ They went home by another way.” But I’m not so sure the difference between what is in the text and what we see in our mind’s eye when we hear this scripture is of much concern in this case. The songs and stories about the Three Kings of the Orient—fanciful though they may be— do a fine job of pointing to the path the Magi cleared. The path that leads us to Jesus.

The reason this story draws us in so very much is that it is so very rich. It is a true adventure story: a journey marked by danger, a tale of good and evil, a drama filled with magical stars, uncontainable joy, precious gifts, and profound worship. And it is a story marked by transformation, for the wise men go home by another way.

Today marks the first Sunday of a sermon series I have been working on for some time, a series based in the book of Matthew and focusing on the vital practices of the Christian faith, the way we live in response to God’s grace. The first practice is worship. The first act of the Magi upon encountering the Christ child was to worship him—to kneel and adore the gift of Light into the world.

In this and many stories, worship happens while on a journey. There’s the classic allegory Pilgrim’s Progress, in which a Christian suffers the distracting influence of characters such as Mr. Worldly Wiseman and Mr. Legality on his harrowing journey from a sin-sick world to the gates of the Celestial City. Even our ordinary Sunday worship begins with a little pilgrimage. What is the simple act of driving a car or walking a few blocks any other day of the week takes a different meaning on Sunday morning. For all our other reasons for showing up, our central purpose is to gather as a community to praise God, to rejoice in the light of Christ, to bask in the fellowship of the Holy Spirit— and that makes the simple act of walking out your front door the first step of a holy journey.

Of course, journeys toward worship can be much more roundabout. The first time I left home—really left home—for my freshman year of college was also the only year of my life that I did not regularly attend a worship service. I was there, but not, as a teenager, so when I had my first taste of freedom, the last thing on my mind was looking up a local congregation. But I was on a spiritual journey. That year I joined a student organization with a lofty title. We were the Spiritual Truth Seekers. Each week, we met up in the student lounge to talk about religion and philosophy. We also heard from different speakers. A faithful Unitarian. A convert to Buddhism. A Christian pastor who had lost his faith only to rediscover it in new and unexpected form. Our meetings were more about seeking than finding, though. I’m not sure we ever landed on the capital T truth we were searching for. But something shifted, something changed in me during that year I went to school in Northwest Ohio. I transferred to a university close to home, but I did not simply retrace my steps. I went home by another way, so that at my new school I didn’t join the philosophy club, but found myself at church every Sunday morning, worshipping. The journey had changed me from a person who wanted to search for truth to a person who wanted to stand in awe of it, and pray.

It has been said that the deep wisdom of the Magi is this: “The Magi represent forever and for all of us the wisdom that recognizes human life to be a journey taken in search of the One who calls us beyond ourselves and into faithful service—One before whom we are prepared to kneel, and to whom we offer the best of our gifts, flawed and unworthy though they may be.”*

Consider that. Your life is a journey. It is a mission to find God—just as the mystical Kings undertook their marathon trek across the desert to find the holy newborn. Though we seek God, it is God who is calling us to make the journey. It is God who forges the star that illuminates the path, a light so bright it cannot be ignored. And when you get to the place where God is calling you, the thing to do is worship.

I wonder if one of the Magi, tired and sore from days spent between the humps of a camel, turned back before they reached Jerusalem. Maybe an unmentioned fourth wise man wasn’t so wise after all, and decided against dirtying his tapestry cloak to honor the child of Jewish peasants. He probably went home the same way he came, as proud as ever. The true Magi were possessed of perfect vision and a willingness to act on what they saw. They saw the star, and followed. They saw the glory of the Lord hidden in the flesh of an infant, and they knelt in worship, offering their finest treasures. They saw murder in the eyes of King Herod, and resisted the call of darkness.

Even though a star doesn’t hang over this sanctuary to guide our steps here, this is the place that God has called us to look upon his Son and give thanks. Maybe our hearts do not throb and swell with joy every single Sunday, the way the prophet Isaiah proclaimed they would when we encountered God’s light. Maybe the gifts we give aren’t quite as valuable as gold. Maybe we feel like we don’t know what we’re doing, even though we’ve been doing it for years.

The living Christ, the Light of the World, is just as manifest here as he was in that ramshackle crib.

And we are called here to worship, to bend our hearts, if not our knees, into that curlicue position of prayer. What we are searching for has been searching for us, and we are found just in time to give ourselves away. From this sacred place, we go home by another way—the way of Christ, who is our light, and our truest home. Amen.


*Herbert O’Driskoll, Kingly Presence.

Sunday, December 31st

Luke 2:41-52

Now every year his parents went to Jerusalem for the festival of the Passover. And when he was twelve years old, they went up as usual for the festival. When the festival was ended and they started to return, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem, but his parents did not know it. Assuming that he was in the group of travelers, they went a day’s journey. Then they started to look for him among their relatives and friends. When they did not find him, they returned to Jerusalem to search for him. After three days they found him in the temple, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. And all who heard him were amazed at his understanding and his answers. When his parents saw him they were astonished; and his mother said to him, “Child, why have you treated us like this? Look, your father and I have been searching for you in great anxiety.” He said to them, “Why were you searching for me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?” But they did not understand what he said to them. Then he went down with them and came to Nazareth, and was obedient to them. His mother treasured all these things in her heart. And Jesus increased in wisdom and in years, and in divine and human favor. (NRSV)

After the last candles were extinguished and the building was locked up tight on Christmas Eve, Ben and I headed north on the 5 to my sister's house in Mountain House, California. The big plan was to surprise my nieces, Gracie and Maddie, on Christmas morning. Even though we arrived well after midnight, I was so anxious to see the girls that I haven't woken up so early on Christmas in 20 years. When Maddie padded downstairs in her footie pjs and saw Uncle Ben's shoes, she thought they were Santa's. Mission accomplished. We had a wonderful visit, from start to finish. Just in the time since we saw them last, Gracie's learned hundreds of new words and developed an attention span long enough to listen to stacks of library books. Maddie easily works 100-piece puzzles and can totally outwit her Aunt Katherine at hide-and-go-seek. I looked for that child for a good fifteen minutes one morning, and she was right under my nose, quiet as a church mouse. The days when she would go hide only to jump out and shout "here I am" as soon as I started looking for her are over.

It is an amazing thing to watch children learn and grow. Ben and I have six nieces and nephews with another on the way, and witnessing their journey through childhood is a true gift.

The scripture we're pondering today is the only canonical account of Jesus as a child—the only such story that is included in our Holy Scriptures. Many, many more stories have been told about Jesus as a boy. The Infancy Gospel of Thomas, an ancient text that was written a couple centuries after the gospel of Luke, imagines the Savior accomplishing amazing feats while yet a child. And just last year, Anne Rice, formerly of vampire novels, wrote a book narrated by a twelve-year-old Jesus.

The impulse to imagine what Jesus was like as a boy is a strong one. As Christians, we believe that the babe born in Bethlehem was fully human and fully divine. We testify that his nativity in ancient Judea ushered in a new realm of God's reconciling work. We are here today because we have heard and responded to the call to follow in the footsteps of Jesus. It's only human that many Christians have wondered just how old Jesus was when he took his first step.

As much as we may wish for a chance to page through Mary's scrapbook of the early years of her holy son, we have instead the gospels. They are less interested in recording the childhood adventures of Jesus than in tapping into the meaning of his life and ministry. This episode from the Gospel of Luke, though cherished as one of the few windows into Jesus' early life, is included in scripture because of what it reveals about God.

The Jesus we encounter in this scripture is just like any adolescent. How many twelve-year-olds have made nervous wrecks of their parents by disappearing into a crowd? How many parents have been reduced to tears of angry relief when the lost child is found safe and sound? The story here, on one level, is as ordinary as any family lore. You can almost hear the echoes of its retelling around the holiday dinner table for years to come. The kid who worried everyone rolls his eyes and blushes while the family patriarch recounts the embarrassing highlights one more time.

And yet on another level, this story is anything but ordinary. The wayward child is not off fishing or making mischief in the marketplace. He has found his way to the center of his community's religious life and has astounded the learned rabbis with his articulate questions and wise observations. The boy in the temple is no run-of-the-mill spiritual prodigy, but the Son of God. He may have strayed from his earthly parents, but Jesus makes it clear that he had simply gone on furlough to his Heavenly Father's temple.

Luke recorded this story as a testimony to the paradox of Christmas. In this brief interlude between the birth of Christ and the inception of his ministry some thirty years later, we get a sense of what it meant for Jesus to be fully human and fully divine. The presence of God's Spirit in Jesus is clear. He doesn't simply have wisdom beyond his years; he has wisdom beyond the ages. And yet he is just a little boy, entrusted to the care of a mother and a father.

Our Lord wasn't deposited on earth as a full-grown man. He was born as any other, learned to walk and to speak as any other, and grew in his faith and understanding as any other. The Jesus we encounter in this text is actively engaged in the ordinary stuff of life. He practiced the Jewish faith, journeying with his family to the temple each year for Passover. He asked questions. As he increased in years he increased in wisdom, learning and growing into the one who would be our salvation.

Again, I say, we are here because we have heard and responded to the call to follow Jesus. We usually pay the most attention to his teachings and actions as an adult. But there is nothing that says we should not also follow the Jesus of this story. The path of growth and learning set forth here is not just for children and youth. The pattern for living culled from this text is a worthy way of life for God's children of all ages. Like Mary and Joseph, most of us have a hard time keeping up with Jesus. And yet keeping up with Jesus is what we are called to do as Christians.

We are on the edge of another new year. I usually am a bit of a cynic about New Years resolutions, having broken too many too count. But there is something so hopeful about turning the calendar page to a new year. There's a contemporary Christmas song that goes, "Maybe this Christmas will mean something more, Maybe this year love will appear, Deeper than ever before."

When I sang alone in the car this week, I changed the words to "new year." Maybe this New Year will mean something more. Maybe this will be the year when the long overdue change or the much-needed growth will take root and flourish.

In the Message bible, this passage concludes by saying that in the following years, Jesus grew up in both body and spirit. Other translations read that Jesus "increased in wisdom" as he increased in years. Maybe this New Year is the time to faithfully commit to growing up in spirit, to hold God's wisdom at the center of our lives if it hasn't already taken its rightful place there.

Jesus and his family made the pilgrimage to Jerusalem every year for Passover. Maybe this is the year you will make the pilgrimage to worship God every single Sunday of the year.

Jesus prayerfully studied the Holy Scriptures. Maybe this is the year you will join in on the ambitious project to read the whole bible in one year, or start attending Sunday School, or commit to participating in the Lenten Bible study a few months from now.

Jesus challenged tradition and asked probing questions. Maybe this is the year you will bravely work through your own questions of faith in the safe space of this Christian community.

Little Jesus got lost, but was found in his Father's house, doing his Father's work. Maybe this is the year we, too, will lose ourselves only to be found in God.

Christmas Eve 2006

Luke 2:1-20

The Birth of Jesus

In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

The Shepherds and the Angels

In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.’ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,
‘Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace among those whom he favours!’

When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, ‘Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.’ So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger. When they saw this, they made known what had been told them about this child; and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them. But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.

The first time I ever paid attention in church was on Christmas Eve. I was ten or so, and while I liked the warmth and the candlelight of the evening service, I was anxious for the gifts and Christmas cookies that waited on the other side of the chilly trip home. I had no intention of listening to the preacher that night, but he startled me into really hearing the gospel for the first time. Standing behind the Communion table, the Reverend proclaimed in a passionate voice that the birth of Christ was meant for everyone. No matter if you were a thief, an adulterer, an alcoholic, a sexaholic. I remember being shocked, thinking that you weren't supposed to talk about those kinds of things at church. Especially not right there in front of the Holy Family. The words the pastor used seemed out of place amidst the pretty manger scene. They were words that spoke of the sorrow and sin of human life. It just didn't seem right to bring all that uncomfortable stuff up on a night that was supposed to be about God.

And yet this is the night that we celebrate that our God became human. The child we welcome with joyful hearts was born of flesh and blood, as weak and needy as any newborn baby. His blood may have been laced with divinity, but the child born in Bethlehem was as human as any.

The nativity of our Lord is a sight to behold in our faithful imaginations. Angels singing and shepherds praising in a festival of starlit adoration. But it didn't happen in a spiritual vacuum. It happened in a specific time and place, to a particular group of people. Every time we hear the Christmas story in the Gospel of Luke, whether it's read from the sanctuary pulpit or by Linus on the Charlie Brown Christmas Special, we are reminded of the very worldly context of Jesus' birth. We hear about Emperor Augustus and his ridiculous ambition to register the whole world. We hear that this happened when Quirinius was governor of Syria. And we hear of the journey required of Mary and Joseph, the long trip from Galilee to Judea.


The Gospel of Matthew also testifies to another circumstance of Christ's birth, the devastating violence that King Herod unleashed upon the families of Bethlehem in his attempt to defeat the newborn King before he even spoke his first word.

By all accounts, the Advent of our savior was littered with the uncomfortable stuff that goes along with being human. Messy stuff: childbirth, politics, injustice, poverty. The star shined brilliantly against the heavy darkness of Bethlehem. The angels' song was heightened by the anguished cries it displaced. The Lord of Love was born into a world polluted with hate. The miracle of the incarnation is that God poured his spirit into the humblest of creatures in the humblest of situations.

Last year, the worship leaders of a Baptist church not too far from here prayed their way into a serious question. Where would the Christ child be born today? They recognized that the nativity of Jesus emerged from a scene of desolation. And so when they set out to build a nativity scene to inhabit the nave of their sanctuary, they borrowed imagery from the newspaper. They constructed a meager shanty covered with a blue tarp, and surrounded it with rubble: cinderblocks and mortar, an old abandoned shopping cart, empty cans and jars, a couple sleeping bags. Hanging by the scene were spray-painted signs that echoed those that were posted on rooftops during the fatal 2005 hurricanes: Save Us. Need Water. Help. Their Advent wreath was an empty oil drum turned on its head. The candles of hope and peace and joy and love smoldered, the only source of heat for the residents of this haphazard refuge.

That scene was painful, not pretty. It preached a powerful message that our carols have long proclaimed: the Christ child was "born to ransom captive Israel." "With the poor, the scorned, the lowly, lived on earth our Savior holy." The hopes and fears met by the Christ child were on display, a silent witness to the depth of our need for Emmanuel, the God who saves us by being with us.

My friend who serves that congregation confessed that the crèche challenged her to "keep [her] eyes open to God's world, the world God loves." Not all of the members of her church responded that way. The first Sunday, my friend noted a "roaring silence about it all." The roaring silence reached a fever pitch as the Advent season trudged on. Some church members struggled with the contemporary reflection of the manger scene. They didn't want to be confronted by the same pain that was relentlessly broadcast on the news when they gathered to praise God.


I need to tell you that my friend is a really great pastor. She cares deeply about the members of her flock. She would not, could not, ignore that the manger's message had gotten lost in translation for some of her church. The nativity scene was meant to be a testimony to how Christ is born to save a suffering world, not to be a cause of suffering. Yet even as my friend recognized that her people needed comfort, she lamented. "Even if we do clean up the sanctuary, the world remains broken."

The church found a way to rejoice on Christmas Eve. Some of the symbols were taken away, and light of Christ filled the space they left behind. But that challenging nativity scene was deconstructed because women and men couldn't bear it, not because God couldn't bear it. The hope of the original nativity in Bethlehem, and the hope of every other nook and cranny in Creation, is that God can and does bear our suffering.


Tonight we celebrate the birth of God into this world. He showed up when we needed him most, and he has never left since. God is present, God is with us. Whether we are laughing at the church potluck or wringing our hands in the emergency room, the One who loves us most is here. The stuff we think we're supposed to leave at home—our rough edges, our skeletons, our insecurities, our broken-down world, is just the load to carry with us on this holy night. Here we meet the One who is ready to share the burden and show us another way, a way of forgiveness and love and justice. A way of salvation.

A story. The chaplain of a home for troubled children was preparing to lead the Christmas Eve service when one of the staff members informed him that one of the boys was hiding beneath his bed and refused to come out. The chaplain went to see if he might be able to convince the child to come out and join in on the Christmas festivities. He stood there in the dorm room and regaled the boy with the plans for the evening: the food, the gifts, the blinking lights on the tree, and so on. The boy didn't make a peep.

This went on for some time, and the chaplain began to worry that he really needed to ring the bell to gather the rest of the children for the carol service. With the boy looking so fearful, he didn't want to pull him out of his little blanketed cave by sheer force. So he did the only thing he could think to do: he got down on his stomach and wriggled partway under the bed, mussing up his clothes in the process. He kept talking to the boy, going on about the good things that waited if only he came out from under the bed. Finally, he was quiet, hoping that the smell of the fresh-baked gingerbread cookies or the laughter of the other kids would cast the boy's fear aside. Patient silence. And then it happened: the boy took the chaplain's hand crawled out from his safe haven and into the circle of celebration.

The miracle of Christmas, the mystery of incarnation, is right there if we're paying attention. God meets us where we are. If we are hiding under the bed, God will shimmy up alongside us and offer us an invitation to come into the light. Through Christ Jesus, God "came to dwell with us in our loneliness and alienation."

No sorrow is outside of his reach. No shame is beyond his forgiveness.

Tonight the angels are singing on high. The message is this: "Do not be afraid. I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord." Do not let the beauty of the candles and carols overshadow the radical hope that is cradled in that mangy manger. In Christ we are reconciled and redeemed. In Christ the love of God is offered to us not despite of—but because of—our needy broken selves. It is in that divine hope in the midst of human hopelessness that we find the fullness of our Christmas joy. In is in that good news we find the beauty of this night.

May you welcome the Christ with all that you have and all that you are. Hallelujah and amen.