A World Turned Right-Side-Up

Sermon preached Sunday, December 3, 2023, the Second Sunday of Advent, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour, in Chesterfield, VA.

The readings we have in church each Sunday go in a three-year cycle. Last year, most of the readings were from the Gospel of Matthew, right up until we began Advent last week. So, this church year, most of our readings will be from the Gospel of Mark. Not all of them: Mark is the shortest of the Gospels and we’d run out of material. To fill out the calendar, there’s a healthy dose from the Gospel of John, too.

If you’ve never sat down and read each Gospel from beginning to end, you might not realize the extent to which each Gospel has its own unique voice, its own unique characteristics. Each Gospel writer has particular words they are fond of, each highlights different aspects of Jesus’ life and ministry.

As I said, Mark is the shortest Gospel. It is spare on the details—it’s been described that he’s like a beat reporter, or a court stenographer. “Just the facts, ma’am.” For example, Jesus’ 40 days in the desert being tempted by the devil gets exactly one sentence. Mark doesn’t include any pieces of narrative that he doesn’t think are essential.

Which brings us to the reading from today. This is the very beginning of the Gospel, the first eight verses. Mark gives us an unusually large amount of detail: quotations of John, citations of scripture, a depiction of how John looked…so, obviously, it’s got to be important! It’s also important to point out that this is where Mark believes the Gospel should begin: with John the Baptist, not with the birth of Christ. Mark doesn’t have the story of Jesus’ nativity. For Mark, this proclamation by John the Baptist is much more vital.

Why? Why does Mark choose to begin here?

It’s a common saying that the purpose of the Gospel is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. In other words, the Gospel brings hope to people who are hopeless and points out hypocrisy and sin among those who have forgotten the most vulnerable in favor of their own benefit.

This is essentially what John the Baptist is doing! He is proclaiming the word of God, preaching baptism for the forgiveness of sins. For people who know they are sinful and in need of grace, this is wonderful news! For people like Herod, who don’t want to admit they’ve done anything wrong, he is disruptive and a nuisance. His words comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.

We know this to be true, don’t we? When justice comes, it is a relief to many and, to others, it might feel like a punishment. Think about the civil rights movement. For people of color, it meant not having to live as second-class citizens. For many white people, it meant giving up a certain sense of superiority and systemic power. The loss of privilege can feel like oppression if one has always been privileged.

Comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.

John the Baptist announces the coming of Christ, the one who will feed his flock like a shepherd, who will gather the lambs in his arms and carry them. (Isaiah 40:11)

…The one who will baptize us with the Holy Spirit.

The one who will call disciples and make them fish for people. The one who will cast out demons and heal many. The one who will still storms and walk on water and feed multitudes. The one who will be arrested and beaten and crucified. The one who will die and rise again.

The one who will be the embodiment of God’s reign of justice and peace for all people. The one who protects the vulnerable and dismantles oppressive systems. The one who came to save all people, not just the people we like.

Not all these things are good news to the people John is preaching to. If the status quo has been working for you, why would you want it to change? If the way things are benefits you, why would you want to give it up? If we’re comfortable with world as is, these words are afflicting. If we’re comfortable now, we actively oppose ushering in the reign of God because things are working out pretty well for us.

But when we let go, when we relinquish control, when we stop fighting God’s purpose for us, we are able to clearly see the incredible things God can do and see that those things are infinitely better than any supposed comfort we might create for ourselves.

We may lose some of our wealth because we are sharing more of it, but we will gain compassion and joy.

We may lose some of our privileges, but we will gain relationships with people.

We may lose the illusion of safety and security based on isolation and exclusion, but we will gain encounters with more of God’s children than we might have before.

We may lose everything we think we can’t live without, but we already have all we need in Christ.

If Advent reminds us of anything, it is the fact that when God is involved, things change.

This is a poem written by Mark Oldenburg, a friend, pastor, and retired professor of worship at United Lutheran Seminary in Gettysburg. This text has been set to music and I was first exposed to it several years ago. In the words, we explore two key people in the nativity narrative, Mary and Herod, and how Christ coming into the world changes the world they live in. It begins with the phrase “This is the Night,” a phrase usually used to announce the Easter Vigil, recalling how the night the resurrection happened changed everything. Oldenburg reminds us that the miraculous events of Christmas carry the same weight and importance as Easter. Resurrection cannot happen without incarnation. Listen to what he says:

“This is the night

dark turns to light

silence to song

weak into strong.

For with this birth

God enters earth,

our death to take,

our chains to break.

This is the night.

O Mary, trust that you will bear

the child, the Christ, the Word,

whose life and death bring to birth

a new and better world:

a word where all the last are first

and all the lost are found;

a world where low are lifted high—

a world turned upside down.

O Herod, clinging to the old

and fearful of the new:

you need not kill this newborn king;

his world will welcome you,

where every voice will bear a song,

and every head a crown;

a world where crimes are washed away,

a world turned upside down.

God, comfort us with confidence

that Christ will all transform

and, through us, fill this present age

with hints of what’s to come,

where all shall share the banquet feast

and over-flowing cup;

a world aligned with your own will—

a world turned right-side-up.”

(Rev. Dr. Mark Oldenburg, “A World Turned Upside Down,” written for Music, Gettysburg! Christmas Offering, 2017)

Be reminded of that this Advent. We prepare the way of the Lord, the way of the one who will change things, who will restore creation, who will put everything right-side-up.

Amen.

John the Pointer

Sermon preached Sunday, December 4, 2022, the Second Sunday of Advent, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

Last week the Gospel was about the sudden coming of the Son of Man. Today we hear about John the Baptist crying out to prepare the way of the Lord. These two weeks are a good reminder that our church year calendar doesn’t move chronologically the way our other calendars do. We move thematically, and Jesus telling us to watch and John telling us to prepare is a great example of that. In both cases, Jesus is already born and already grown. This order reminds us that Advent is not just about Christ being born two thousand years ago, but the ways Christ continues to come to us in the present, and the way Christ will come again in the future.

I really love John the Baptist. He would definitely make the cut if I had to name my top ten characters in the Bible. He is passionate. He is stubborn. He is undeterred in his mission—he is called “the Baptist,” after all. I wonder, though, if perhaps that title is a misnomer…or if not the wrong title, than not the only title. I wonder if he might also be known as “John the Pointer.”

A few minutes ago I talked with our youngest members about how different things can point us to God and how we, too, have the honor, the opportunity, the responsibility to be pointers ourselves.  Everything we do, every interaction we have, even every act we do in private…all of it can be used to point away from ourselves and towards God.

And what kind of God are we pointing towards? This morning’s readings give us some great insights.

Isaiah points toward a ruler who will follow in the line of David. Hear the words again:

²The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him,
the spirit of wisdom and understanding,
the spirit of counsel and might,
the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.
³His delight shall be in the fear of the Lord.
He shall not judge by what his eyes see,
or decide by what his ears hear;
⁴but with righteousness he shall judge the poor,
and decide with equity for the meek of the earth;
he shall strike the earth with the rod of his mouth,
and with the breath of his lips he shall kill the wicked.
⁵Righteousness shall be the belt around his waist,
and faithfulness the belt around his loins. (Isaiah 11:2-5)

These words describe the longed toward ruler, but we know that they also describe Jesus. We know that they also describe our God who came to live and dwell among us. This is a God who is just and faithful, filled with righteousness.  And as the passage continues, we see that this is also a God who brings about peace:

⁶The wolf shall live with the lamb,
the leopard shall lie down with the kid,
the calf and the lion and the fatling together,
and a little child shall lead them.
⁷The cow and the bear shall graze,
their young shall lie down together;
and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.
⁸The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp,
and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den.
⁹They will not hurt or destroy
on all my holy mountain;
for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord…” (Isaiah 11:6-9a)

Predator and prey, lying together. Venomous snakes and a young child playing together. All of creation, finding a way to live in peace—including humanity. There is no longer a desire to dominate, or to hurt, or to exploit. All is at peace.

But it doesn’t stop in Isaiah. In his letter to the Romans, the apostle Paul speaks at length about who our God is. And our God is one who welcomes. Paul reminds the church in Rome that our God of “steadfastness and encouragement” has welcomed us and brought us together—and that God is at the heart of this complex unity.

In both cases, Isaiah and Paul are also “pointers.” They are also individuals who used their lives and their voices to direct people’s gaze and attention to who God is. Isaiah, Paul, John…and us. All are people called to highlight the wonderful qualities of God and direct people’s gaze to God’s work.

There is a note of caution here, though. Sometimes we forget about our role. Sometimes we turn inwards. It’s more than tempting to try and direct the focus to ourselves. We love for people to notice when we’re excelling. We feel validated when people acknowledge our hard work. We want people to see us…and we tend to not care as much about whether or not our lives are pointing to God. We say to ourselves, “It’s all about me, it only matters how I am effected, I am at the center of it all.”

When we do this, we run the risk of ending up like the Pharisees and Sadducees that John was railing against. The Pharisees and Sadducees disagreed about some issues regarding scripture and theology, but both groups had very specific ideas about how one could live righteously and be in a right relationship with God. The problem was, John saw these people caring more about keeping themselves in power and authority than about whether or not people were experiencing God’s grace. They were making sure that laws and rules they helped to enforce were being obeyed. In other words, they were pointing to themselves, not God.

We often hear about these people and assume that there’s no way we’d ever be like them. Surely John would never be yelling at us from the banks of the Jordan River! Surely we’d never lose sight of what’s really important! …and yet we would…and yet we do.

We succeed in our favorite hobby or in our job or in our relationships and chalk it up to our own talent or drive. We contribute to charities or social welfare organizations and pat ourselves on the back for how great we are.

There are countless ways and countless times that we forget who we are and forget whose we are and end up working only for our own glory or recognition. At those times, we can give thanks because God is always there.

God is always there to call us home, to call us back to repentance, to use other people around us as “pointers” to direct our gaze and to remind us of our baptismal vocation. Do you remember what commitments are made in the rite of baptism? I’ll remind you: “to live among God’s faithful people, to hear the Word of God and share in the Lord’s supper, to proclaim the good news of God in Christ through word and deed, to serve all people, following the example of Jesus, and to strive for justice and peace in all the earth?” (ELW) In other words, we commit to being “pointers,” both individually and as a community.

And it is through this community, through these commitments, that the lives we lead point to God more effectively than any other kind of evangelism, even that of a wild man on a riverbank. We point for ourselves. We point for others. We rely on our siblings in Christ to help us see. So live your life. Live your life, all the while pointing to the God who loves you, who forgives you, who brings peace and reconciliation, who welcomes you to this table, who creates unity, and who will always call you back.

Amen.

Awake

Sermon preached Sunday, November 27, 2022, the First Sunday of Advent, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

“He shall judge between the nations.” (Isaiah 2:4a)

“…it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep.” (Romans 13:11)

“Therefore you also must be ready for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.”

This morning’s appointed readings are rather alarming. Ralph Klein, one of my professors from seminary mentioned that this gospel reading “scared the daylights out of [him] as a child.”[i][1] I can’t really blame him. It’s the sort of thing nightmares are made of, especially for a young person. Imagine them hearing this Gospel and thinking that at any moment their mom or their dad or their sister or brother or best friend could vanish. Scary stuff.

As we dig deeper into these texts, though, we can understand them in a new way. Instead of fear, we can read these words as texts of hope. The way Dr. Klein explains it, these signs, these alarming images are God’s “onrushing future.”[2]

He writes, “Isaiah’s picture of the future depicts God as the one settling all international disputes, making war unnecessary and in fact obsolete. God draws all people to Jerusalem as if by a divine magnet, and there they learn God’s ways and God’s paths, and they will not study war anymore. Instead, they will transform their swords into stoves and washing machines and their spears into laptops and mopeds, the twenty-first century equivalent of plowshares and pruning hooks. With the violence in our streets and war and conflict dominating our headlines, we may find this vision hard to believe, even hard to imagine. But the final verse in the first reading expresses a fit liturgical commitment: People of God, let us at least anticipate this onrushing future by starting to walk in God’s light. Breaking the chain of violence in our homes, schools, and congregations can be the dawning light of God’s promised future.”[3]

This future might feel a bit scary…we don’t know exactly what it will look like or exactly how it will all shape out…but we have promises of God to hold on to. The Gospel of Matthew begins with the birth of Christ and the angel telling Joseph he will be called “’Emmanuel,’ which means, ‘God is with us.”” (Matthew 1:23). This same Gospel ends with Jesus telling his disciples, “Remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” (Matthew 26:20) God is with us, to the end of the age…is there any promise greater than that? God is with us in our relationships with one another. God is with us in the waters of baptism, in the bread and wine at this table, in our music, in our prayers, in our community. All of God’s promises can be boiled down to God’s presence with God’s creation and God’s people and the desire to reconcile everything to Godself.

This is what the season of Advent is all about. It is about holding fast to the promises God has made and anticipating the fulfillment of those promises. The color of Advent is blue, the color of the sky just before dawn begins to break. We await the birth of Christ as we await the new morn. It will come—both expected and out of the blue.

Like Christmas, we know that morning will come…but that doesn’t stop us from watching for it, from longing for it. We know that we will celebrate the birth of Christ on December 24^th and 25^th. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day will be here…but that doesn’t mean that we need to jump the gun here in worship.

I love Christmas music. I love the old English Carols sung by the Kings College Choir in Cambridge and I love A Christmas Together, the amazing collaboration between John Denver and the Muppets. I love the lights. I love the cookies and sweets. I love the parties, the gift giving, the decorating and time spent with friends and family. I love the warmth and nostalgia that comes from unwrapping old ornaments or successfully making a family recipe. This time of year is filled with a lot of joy.

There is joy, but there is also a lot of stress. All around us, decorations have been up for months. Some people have already finished shopping for gifts and the rest of us will probably find ourselves in crowded shopping centers, standing in long checkout lines, scouring Amazon and Etsy to find the perfect present and, in general, stressing out. Stressing out about wrapping paper and food and mailing costs and putting up lights and…you get the picture. Then we add to that people who have lost loved ones or who have strained relationships with friends and family…grief and loneliness can make getting through the season a struggle.

This is why I think it is so important that we keep Advent in an intentional way, at least here in worship. We can still put up our Christmas trees and enjoy holiday festivities, but our readings and our music and what happens here helps us keep it all in perspective. It helps us take a deep breath and really live into this season of anticipation.

Writer and scholar Diana Butler Bass wrote an essay several years ago exactly on this topic. In her words, she explains why Advent and, in particular, a “blue” Advent is so important for her as a person of faith. She writes:

“Blue holds the promise that the sun will rise, and that even after the bleakest, coldest, longest night, the light will break forth, as the new day arrives.

“Blue may be the color of sadness, but blue is also the color of hope.

“Many faiths and religious traditions have sacred days or times of waiting, of anticipation, of the expectation of enlightenment — that light breaks through the night. Diwali, Bodhi Day, Hanukkah, winter solstice, Advent. And those sorts of holy days are celebrated when darkness surrounds, when all seems lost. When we hurt and think we have been abandoned, when all promises seem broken. When we light candles against the night, trusting and believing that a greater light will arise. When a single flame becomes a conflagration of compassion and justice.

“For Christians, Advent is not a time of opening up little windows [on Advent calendars filled] with chocolates as we await the really big booty of presents under the tree on Christmas morning. That is not what we are waiting for. We are waiting for light, for God to renew and heal the world, a promise that we understand to have been mysteriously embodied in a baby born in a manger.”[4]

And this thing that we are waiting for, God’s future that we are desperate for, is already coming at us. God is already coming to us, coming to dwell in our hearts, in our lives, and in our world.

And it is not something to fear, but something to long for, to hope for in our deepest being. In Matthew’s Gospel Jesus tells us to “Keep awake, therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.” (Matthew 24:42) One of my favorite Advent hymns echoes these words. You’ve likely heard it at least once before, “Awake, Awake, and greet the new morn.” This Advent carol reminds us that we need not be afraid of that day.

It ends like this: “Love be our song and love our prayer and love our endless story; may God fill ev’ry day we share and bring us at last into glory.” (ELW 242) That’s our story at its core—that’s God’s story at its core. This Advent we will wait, and we will watch, and we will hope and we will prepare. God’s future—a future of new life and unending love—is coming to us. Amen.

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[1] Ralph W. Klein, “From a Scholar,” Sundays and Seasons Preaching: Year A 2017 (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2016), 21.

[2] Ibid.

[3] Ibid.

[4] (https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/acts-of-faith/wp/2016/11/25/forget-red-and-green-make-it-a-blue-holiday-instead)

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What Shall We Cry?

Sermon preached Sunday, December 6, 2020, the Second Sunday of Advent, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

The Gospel of Mark opens with no preamble. There is not listing of Jesus’ lineage, no birth story, no cosmic origin narrative of how the Word came to be. Instead, Mark gets right to the point:

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

We began a new liturgical year last week, and that means that most of our readings this year will come from the Gospel of Mark. Mark is like the court stenographer of the gospel writers. He is concise and spare in his details. Everything in his gospel happens with a sense of urgency—one of his favorite phrases is “and immediately,” as he describes how Jesus moves about the countryside. He likes to get right to the point.

And the point at the beginning of this gospel is the proclamation of John the Baptist—the voice of one crying out.

You could say that this morning’s readings are all about voices and those voices crying out.

The prophet Isaiah tells of a voice crying out: “In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord!”

A voice tells Isaiah, “Cry out!” and Isaiah asks, “What shall I cry?”

And John the baptizer appears in the wilderness, where the voice is crying. John the baptizer, this intense, unusual character.

John cries out to prepare the way of the Lord. What shall you cry? The same thing! We lift our voices with the baptizer and yell, “Prepare the way of the Lord!”

That’s what we cry. And how does the world respond? What does the world cry back?

The commercials on the television and radio cry, “Spend!”

The pundits and commentators on the news and internet cry, “Argue!”

The ones who have been hurt and seek to hurt in return cry, “Hold grudges!”

Sports teams, uncompassionate businesses and divisive leaders cry, “Win at all costs!”

And collectively, the world together cries, “Forget who created you! Forget whose you are!”

In essence, the world again and again cries out, “No!”

As so, in this season of Advent, we stand with John the baptizer in the wilderness, raising our voices and calling for all people to prepare the way of the Lord—the way that responds to the world’s “No” with a firm, resounding “Yes!”

When the world says death—God responds with life. When the world offers nothing but despair—God offers hope. When hate seems to be the prevailing emotion—God counteracts with love. And when it seems like all the world does is take—God continually gives and gives abundantly.

This is the path we are called to follow. This is the good news we are called to announce. This is the way we are called to prepare.

Prepare the way of the Lord, the way of God, a way that looks like compassion, love and welcome as opposed to ignoring both the stranger and neighbor around us. The way of God that we enter into in our communal worship: where the table is open to all who hunger and thirst and the font makes us one in Christ.

Prepare the Way of the Lord!

Cry it out!

Amen.

Cries of Hope

Sermon preached Sunday, November 29, 2020, the First Sunday of Advent, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

Our readings this week open with a powerful lament:

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down,
so that the mountains would quake at your presence—” (Isaiah 64:1)

This is not a polite request. This is not a suggestion. This is a passionate, heart-rending, desperate cry for help.

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down!”

I can really resonate with Isaiah. I bet you can, too.

If we think of all the fears, all the disappointments, all the rancor, all the destruction, all the pain, all the grief, all the death, all the stress, all the anxiety, all the questions…if we think of everything we’ve been through in just the last nine months, I think we all might resonate with Isaiah.

“O that you would tear open the heaves and come down!”

What would you have God do? How would you like God to act? Feel free to share in the comments.

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down!”

Come down, and rid us of this plague.

Come down, and spare us from natural disasters.

Come down, and unite your people in love.

Come down, and fix this mess we’ve made.

It’s a fitting way to begin advent, although maybe it doesn’t seem that way on the surface. Advent is a time of waiting, of longing, of anticipation—and what are we anticipating?

“O God, that you would come down.” We anticipate God’s descent into our world and into our skin. We anticipate God’s presence in our world. We anticipate Emmanuel—God-with-us.

God-with-us then and God-with-us now. Because when we look towards Christmas, when we enter this season of waiting, we don’t just do it to pretend like we don’t know Jesus was born two thousand years ago…and we don’t do it to imply that Christ’s coming among us then didn’t matter.

No, we mark these weeks leading up to the celebration of the incarnation because we know that Christ is the one who was, who is and who is to come.

And so we look at the past and see Jesus’ life and ministry and death and resurrection.

And we look at the present and see the face of Jesus in our neighbor and the ones we love and feel the presence of Jesus among us.

And—and—we look to the future when Christ will come again and make all things new.

So even when we might be sitting in this time of disappointment and grief and loss and anxiety, we still have hope.

Hope for reconciliation.

Hope for health.

Hope for wholeness.

Hope for peace.

Hope for a new day.

Hope for new life.

Because without hope, what are we waiting for? Without hope, what are we longing for?

Even Isaiah had hope.

“O that you would open the heavens and come down!”

We, with Isaiah, hope for the new future God has in store.

Amen.

Emmanuel

Sermon preached Sunday, December 22, 2019, the Fourth Sunday of Advent, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

Of the two gospels that give us an infancy narrative, Matthew and Luke, neither gives us the full picture. They are written by two different people who want to highlight different things. Luke is focused on Mary, the annunciation and her relationship with her relative, Elizabeth, and Elizabeth’s son. Matthew, on the other hand, tells us about things from Joseph’s point of view. It tells us of Joseph’s hesitation, his decision to avoid dealing with Mary and her problem, and his visit from the angel that changed his life.

When the angel comes to Joseph, he is given some instructions: in order to fulfill what had been spoken by the LORD through the prophet, Joseph was to marry Mary and name the child she bore Jesus. Well, Jesus and Emmanuel. Is Jesus given two names here? It’s a little ambiguous. It’s not explicit who the “they” are who will call the child “Emmanuel.” It could be the parents or some other “they.” Regardless, the angel tells Joseph to name the baby Jesus, then quotes the prophecy that will be fulfilled in which he is named Emmanuel.

I tend to think of it in this way: “Jesus” is his name and Emmanuel is more than a name. It is a title, like “messiah.” It is a role, like “savior.” And, above all else, it is a promise. Emmanuel literally means “God is with us.” If that isn’t the promise of the incarnation, I don’t know what is.

In the incarnation we see the lengths that God will go to in order to love us, in order to bring us back into relationship with God, not through displays of military strength or miraculous, magical power, but through sacrificial love. God chose to come among us in our own skin. God took on our fallibilities, our weaknesses, physical and otherwise and did so in the most helpless form possible: a newborn infant.

If there’s anything I’ve come to know well these past two months, it is the utter helplessness of a newborn. I’d cared for infants before as a babysitter and a nanny, but when Owen was born I was reminded just how much these tiny little humans need others to do everything for them. The world is brand-new and scary and even eating is a learned skill. They can’t get food by themselves. They can’t keep themselves warm or take steps to cool themselves down if they overheat. They often need help in the form of rocking or soothing noise to fall asleep. And as they grow, their needs don’t necessarily diminish, they just change.

They are constantly learning and readjusting to the world around them, gaining new skills and figuring out how they are connected and related to the world around them.

This Advent, I was struck with all these images of the infant Jesus. Not the peaceful baby resting in Mary’s arms, but the baby being held by Joseph so Mary could get some sleep. The baby Jesus wailing with hunger as he woke up from a nap. The baby Jesus seeming to be peacefully sleeping in his parents’ arms, then popping his eyes open as soon as they tried to lay him down. That first gummy grim appearing in his face as he smiled at them. This needy, demanding, helpless, sweet, snuggly body is how our God chose to come to us so that everything we experience, from our first seconds out of the womb until our death, would be a shared experience with God—a shared experience with a God who is still with us.

And it’s God is with us. Not God was with us, a recollection of the past when God saved Noah from the flood or led the Israelites through the Red Sea or guided them back from exile. It’s also not God will be with us, a future-focused proclamation that sees us ignoring the world in front of us because God is going to do something sometime soon. No, it’s God is with us. Here. Now. In this time and in this place.

When our planet exhibits destructive natural phenomena, God is with us. Even in the floods, earthquakes, fires, and storms, God is there. Bringing new life out of death and decay. Bringing rains to parched earth and receding tides to water-logged land. Encouraging conservation in the face of pollution and ruinous consumption.

When the nations rage against each other, prioritizing national identity over our shared humanity, God is there. Inspiring peace and justice. Guiding agencies and individuals to care for refugees whose lives have been torn apart. Reminding us that we belong to one collective humanity.

When our own country seems to be coming apart at the seams, when we can’t even seem to agree on basic concepts or who to trust for news, God is there. Strengthening resolve to find solutions to conflict. Helping us listen without shutting down or shutting out. Filling our hearts with compassion instead of defensiveness or competition.

When our personal relationships are crumbling, and there are break-ups and dysfunctional, toxic ties between family members and friends, God is there. Giving us permission to keep ourselves safe. Offering love when it has been withheld. Comforting us when we feel alone or like all is lost.

When our bodies fail us, when illness takes over, slowly eroding our physical wellness or making our minds suffer the many shades of depression or anxiety or other disordered thinking, God is there. Through cancer and dementia and the gradual wearing down of our organs; through tragic accidents; through mixed up brain chemistry and trauma-conditioned responses, God reminds us that we are whole in God’s eyes—that we are loved unconditionally and irrevocably, that we are God’s children.

God is with us. Always. From the beginning, until now, and into the eternal future.

That’s what the incarnation is…that’s what the incarnation means: that God is always with us—and Jesus even makes it an explicit promise.

On of my favorite things about the Gospel of Matthew is the way that the beginning and end are bookended together. The Gospel begins with Emmanuel and ends with Emmanuel. Did you know that? Does anyone remember what Jesus says at the end of this Gospel, as he is saying goodbye to his disciples? There is the Great Commission: “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you.” …but it doesn’t end there. What does he say next?

“Remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

Matthew begins and ends with Emmanuel, God is with us. It’s the overarching theme—it’s Matthew’s thesis statement. God. Is. With. Us. From the beginning, throughout history, throughout our lives, and on until the end of time. No matter what forces try to separate us, no matter what we might do, no matter the circumstances.

God is with us. Emmanuel. Amen.

Expecting

Sermon preached Sunday, December 23, 2018, the Fourth Sunday of Advent, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA. Audio can be found here.

Expect the unexpected. It’s a cliché frequently used and over used. As Christians, though, it might well be the most apt descriptor of God’s action. Even more, these three words, “expect the unexpected,” are incredibly appropriate when it comes to this last Sunday of Advent, this last week of waiting before celebrating Christ’s coming to dwell among us.

It’s what the prophet Micah proclaims, as his community is overrun and torn apart by Assyrian armies. Micah wrote his words away from the great city of Jerusalem. He wrote away from the seat of great power. He sees the walled and fortified cities crumbling and knows that the salvation of Israel will not come from those places. Instead, he speaks to Bethlehem.

Bethlehem, a little town almost in the middle of nowhere. Bethlehem, part of one of the “little clans of Judah.” Bethlehem, a village that nobody expected much from. And then, Micah’s bold proclamation: “But you, O Bethlehem…from you shall come forth for me one who is to rule in Israel.” (Micah 5:2) In other words, help will come from an unexpected place…even a place like Bethlehem.

In the mist of destruction, Micah is not deterred from his faith in God. Micah points to hope for the future, hope that will not come to fruition in his lifetime, hope that finds its embodiment in the baby borne by Mary.

Mary, herself, is unexpected—as is Elizabeth, her relative. When we look at these women in their ancient context, they are truly remarkable. They are women, first of all, having little to no agency in the world around them. Elizabeth is older, once thought to be barren. Mary is young and could face public disgrace for being an unwed mother if Joseph decides to jilt her. They are not from powerful families. They have no real political or monetary clout. And yet, these two women meet each other and talk about changing the world.

Elizabeth’s husband, Zechariah, he was told his son would be a prophet. In response, he voices his disbelief to the angelic messenger and is made mute. Today, we have that boy’s mother, Elizabeth, offering her own understanding and a prophecy. She recognizes Mary and the baby she carries as her own child leaps in her womb. Elizabeth, in fact, is the first person to say aloud who Jesus is. “And why has this happened to me,” she asks, “that the mother of my Lord comes to me?” (Luke 1:44)

The next thing she says is interesting. Elizabeth could just be talking about Mary, but she could also be talking about herself…and all who believe what God has promised. Elizabeth says, “blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.” (Luke 1:45) Blessed be Mary for believing the angel’s announcement to her. Blessed be Elizabeth: even though she was unable to conceive, she believed she would indeed bare the one who would prepare the way.

Mary goes further and sings a song that is both thanksgiving for what God has done and praise for what God will continue to do. This song, called the Magnificat, announces shocking reversals: the proud are scattered, the powerful are brought down from their thrones, the lowly are lifted up, the hungry are filled, the rich are sent away empty. She, Mary, is looked upon with favor by God and knows that because of God’s work, not her own, she will be called blessed throughout history.

These sentiments find their way into Jesus’ ministry. In his first sermon, he declares that the Spirit of the Lord is upon him, “to bring good news to the poor…proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” (Luke 4:18-19) Jesus is quoting the prophet Isaiah, but in the themes are echoes and connections to Mary’s song. Can you imagine Jesus growing up, hearing from his mother the story of how God showed her favor, hearing his mother proclaim God’s goodness? Mary would not have been expected to teach her son the finer points of faith, that’s supposed to come from the rabbis and pharisees and scribes…but I can’t think of a better person for him to learn from.

We are called to expect the unexpected—to expect to find God at work in unexpected places and unexpected people.

The reversals the Magnificat sets forth are expansive and defy our preconceived notions of greatness. The humble are lifted up—people who are not doormats, but rather people who recognize that every other person’s humanity and life is just as important as theirs. The proud, those who insist on being regarded as better than the people around them, these people are brought down low and shown that no one is above another.

The poor, having little or nothing, are given feasts and all they need to live on. They have a deep gratitude for each crumb that passes their lips, knowing how precious it can be. The rich, on the other hand, are sent away from the feast empty. Their money cannot buy them a place in the community and their greed and refusal to care for the people around them has set them outside.

Perhaps the hardest expectation to be rid of for the people of Jesus’ time has to do with how God will assert power. The Roman occupation was violent and oppressive. Many longed for the Messiah to come, raise up an incredible army, and strike down the Roman forces. A military king, they wanted. A soldier ready for war. Someone who would get revenge for all the atrocities visited upon them.

Instead, God comes in the form of an infant. When that infant is grown, he tells his followers, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” “All who take up the sword will die by the sword.” This is the one in whom we trust, the one whom we follow, even if it’s not the one we expected.

God seeks to upset our preconceived notions.

We are at the beginning of the church year, but we know where we are going. We are about to celebrate Christ’s birth, but we know how Christ will die. The unexpected actions of God lead us, inevitably, to the cross. God, who chose to dwell among us and live out a life with us, never does what we might do.

Self-preservation is a strong motivator and, frankly, if I was in the garden like Jesus and saw soldiers coming at me to arrest me, I might tell my disciples to go ahead and get out their swords, instead of putting them away. If I was being interrogated by a Roman governor, I might say anything I could to get off the hook. If I was about to be crucified, I might—okay, I would—use my godly powers to stop it from happening! But God doesn’t do what we would do or what we would expect. God chooses the path that is unexpected and shows that love is the greatest force of all.

The cradle to the cross….but that’s not all! Finally, in perhaps the greatest subversion of our expectations, God goes to the cross for us—not because of our own righteousness, but because of God’s. Not because of how good we are, but because of how good God is. Not because we deserve it, but because God has chosen to give it. Not because we are the wealthiest or most talented or most popular or the most respected…but because God loves us just as we are.

People of God, expect the unexpected. Amen.

Rejoicing

Sermon preached Sunday, December 16, 2018, the Third Sunday of Advent, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA. Audio can be found here.

I can’t remember if I’ve ever mentioned this before, but I was John the Baptist. It was my senior year of high school and our Spring musical was Godspell. It was great. My theater teacher set the play in a grungy urban landscape and my costume consisted of a beanie, dirty trench coat, and a tye-dyed t-shirt with the words “God Speaks” printed on the front. I had a spray bottle, the kind you see people with on street corners who are eager to wash your windshield for a bit of cash.

I opened the play by singing “Prepare ye the way of the Lord,” and then immediately entered into a diatribe: “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come!” I got to be angry and sarcastic and biting and, well, it was fun. Who doesn’t love the chance to scold and mock and whip-up crowds? This is John in Godspell. Energy and anger and passion.

In truth, John is not all that different from the prophets who came before him. If we look at the prophetic books of the Bible—Isaiah, Jeremiah, Habakkuk, to name a few—we see this time and time again. The prophets should, proclaim, declare God’s judgement on the people, usually for their turn to idolatry or their mistreatment of the poor, or, usually, a combination of the two. They warn people what is to come if they don’t change their ways.

…but then, it changes. While the prophet certainly has harsh words, that is never where the prophet ends. Eventually, the prophet gets to good news, to a promise from God that everything will be made right.

Our first reading from Zephaniah is a perfect example of this. Zephaniah is only three chapters long and the first two and half of those chapters is judgement and dire predictions. Zephaniah warns of the coming “Day of the Lord” and urges the people to repent and mend their ways. Then, halfway through Chapter 3, the tone abruptly changes and we hear this song of joy:

 ¹⁴Sing aloud, O daughter Zion;
shout, O Israel!
Rejoice and exult with all your heart,
O daughter Jerusalem! (Zephaniah 3:14)

On and on he goes, celebrating the goodness of God and exuding confidence that God will make everything right. In all the prophets, God’s judgement is always followed by God’s word and the fulfillment of God’s promises.

John the Baptist follows this same pattern, even if it doesn’t immediately sound like it. Hear again the judgement:

“You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? ⁸Bear fruits worthy of repentance. Do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor’; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. ⁹Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.” (Luke 3:7b-9)

Trees cut down and thrown into the fire for not bearing good fruit, for not bearing the fruit of righteousness. Simply being descendants of Abraham is not enough. John then goes on to answer some questions about how to live in this new way: share your clothing and food, don’t take advantage of others, live in peace. …and then comes the good news:

“I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. ¹⁷His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” (Luke 3:16-17)

This is good news, as unlikely as that might seem, with all the talk about unquenchable fire.

It’s good news because it means that God is coming to make things right, to do away with all the things that seek to destroy us and keep us from abundant life.

Those things will be cut down. Those things will be thrown into the fire. God will separate out our sin, our individual and corporate complicity in unjust systems and oppression, our greed, our selfishness, just as the harvester separates out the wheat from the chaff. And everything that hurts us and that hurts others is burned. Done away with. And we are left whole and holy. Beloved children of God, baptized with the Holy Spirit and with the cleansing fire of righteousness.

This is good news and cause for rejoicing!

Today is the third Sunday of Advent. Historically, Advent developed as a penitential companion to Lent and held the same kind of somber notes as those six weeks in preparation for Easter. Since Advent had this more subdued nature, the Third Sunday was seen as a break—the JOY Sunday! It has been called Gaudete Sunday, after the word for “rejoice” in Latin. Even though our observance of Advent has changed over the centuries into something more about quiet expectation instead of penitence, you can tell by our readings that this is still the Sunday of Rejoicing.

Other aspects remain, as well. The color for Gaudete Sunday is Rose, or pink, which is why our third candle in the wreath is a different color. If we wanted to go all out, we could even change all the paraments, but it’s not really necessary and, well, we don’t own any rose paraments!

Regardless, this is a Sunday of joy and rejoicing—of celebrating what it truly means to have God come and live among us and change the world as we know it. In just a few minutes we’ll sing our hymn of the day. It’s a beautiful tune that highlights the longing we feel for God’s presence and God’s light in our lives. The last verse speaks to the promise we celebrate:

“Shine your future on this place,

Enlighten every guest,

That through us stream your holiness,

Bright and blest, bright and blest;

Come down, O Sun of Grace.” (ELW 261 “As the Dark Awaits the Dawn”)

Even in the midst of this troubled world, even when faced with violence and injustice and death and pain and suffering, even when our hearts are heavy with grief, the Sun of Grace comes to us, shining among us and illuminating a splendid future. So, this morning, let’s rejoice together.

Let’s celebrate with Zephaniah and proclaim God’s commitment to us:

“²⁰At that time I will bring you home,
at the time when I gather you;
for I will make you renowned and praised
among all the peoples of the earth,
when I restore your fortunes
before your eyes, says the Lord.” (Zephaniah 3:20)

Join in with Paul in his quiet confidence:

“⁴Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. ⁵Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near.” (Philippians 4:4-5)

Echo the Isaiah in our Psalm this morning:

⁵Sing praises to the Lord, for he has done gloriously;
let this be known in all the earth.
⁶Shout aloud and sing for joy, O royal Zion,
for great in your midst is the Holy One of Israel. (Isaiah 12:5-6)

Today is a day of rejoicing!

Amen.

Preparing

Sermon preached Sunday, December 9, 2018, the Second Sunday of Advent, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

Welcome to the Second Sunday of Advent. We light one more candle. The sanctuary is now full of decorations. We move along one more week towards the celebration of Christ’s coming among us. It’s a bit more waiting, a bit more preparing, a bit more asking ourselves what it means to make ourselves ready for the Christ child.

Enter John the Baptist: son of Zechariah, prophet, a truly odd man who lived an unconventional life on the edges of society. He said and did things that got him into trouble with religious and political authorities alike. In trying to introduce him, the Gospel writer ends up pulling a reference from the Prophet Isaiah. Luke uses Isaiah’s words to frame who John is. John is the voice crying out.

It’s important here to remember the context in which these words were proclaimed in Isaiah’s time. Isaiah spoke them while the Israelites were in exile. They were far away from home and had no idea if they would ever be able to go back. The Temple was destroyed. Their way of life had changed drastically, and hope was failing. It was in this environment that this prophet has the audacity to provide this vision for the future. It was in the midst of despair that Isaiah offers a confident expectation that things will change. Hear these words from Isaiah again, and imagine what it must have been like to hear them if you were desperately longing to return home:

³A voice cries out: “In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. ⁴Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain. ⁵Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together…” (Isaiah 40:3-5a)

Do you hear the hope? Do you hear the care and the passion and the joy?

When John the Baptist arrived on the scene hundreds of years later, the people had returned to Judea, but there was still longing, still desperation. They were occupied by the Roman Empire and lived as a people kept down and subjugated. They lived their lives in constant fear of violence and persecution. These words from generations before seemed just as relevant as ever. The people in Jesus’ time, like their ancestors, needed hope, something to look forward to, some sign that things would get better.

In both cases—during the exile and under occupation—it is announced that God will make a way. A way for the exiles to return. A way for God to join the people. A way for the promised Messiah to come. A way forward into God’s promised future for all people.

Did you know that this past Monday, December 3^rd, was the United Nations’ International Day of Persons with Disabilities? I didn’t. I didn’t even realize that the Day was a thing, but it has been honored yearly since 1992. I honestly had never heard of it before this year. It wasn’t until two colleagues shared some of their own stories, linked to the day, that I discovered it.

These colleagues are talented pastors who live with disabilities: one was born with spinal bifida and has had to use a wheelchair all her life. The other was born with only one arm. They are tremendous pastors. They are thoughtful theologians who constantly remind me and so many others that wholeness is not somehow being physically “perfect” but about living into the full person God has created you to be, in whatever embodiment that might take.

They both offered up some beautiful and convicting reflections about this day and the many ways in which our world is still inaccessible to many. Just take this sanctuary, for example. Previously, I would have said it is accessible, and it is—for participants. But we have steps all over the chancel. If we wanted someone who used a wheelchair or who was unable to climb stairs to preside or preach or even sing in the choir, we would have to change the way we do things because the space and the ways we use it are not laid out with that in mind. It wouldn’t be impossible, but it would require effort. Accessibility is not often our default.

This struggle was lifted this up and linked back to the text from Isaiah, the text referenced in our Gospel reading this morning. The question was asked: “Did you notice that the reading from Luke 3 is about a God who makes Godself accessible by breaking down every barrier while instructing us to work together with God to make the road straight?”

(Pastor Beth Wartick in a Facebook Post Dated 12/5/2018)

In other words, God becomes accessible to each and every person in every way possible. No gravel or rocks to trip over. No stairs. No walls or barricades. No tricky narrow corridors or too-small doorways. Nothing is going to stop God from being with God’s beloved people.

Her insight made this passage even more beautiful to me…and it goes far beyond just people’s physical limitations! God breaks down intellectual and cognitive barriers. We don’t need to be able to read to hear God’s words of love and promise. We don’t need a big vocabulary or developed math skills. We don’t need an advanced engineering degree to celebrate the complexity of creation. God’s love is for all of humanity, regardless of how well a person thinks they might understand it.

In truth, we see that God is constantly working to break down anything and everything that might keep people separate, keep us desolate or desperate or alone. God works to bring us back into community with one another and with God’s own self.

Ask yourself, “What is trying to keep you from God?”

Is it the voice of self-doubt that says you’re not worthy of God’s forgiveness?

Is it the voice that says you’re not sure if you even believe any of this stuff anyway?

Is it the voice that says you’re not allowed to feel real grief or pain or anger or hurt because a good Christian should only ever feel joy and gratitude?

Is it the voice that says you’re not a good enough Christian? A good enough child? A good enough spouse? A good enough parent? A good enough anything?

God comes to do away with those voices. God comes to do away with the obstacles. God comes to do away with it all.

…and we are called and blessed to join in. We get to join in tearing down structures and standards that keep people with disabilities from full access to participation and leadership. We get to join in dismantling systems of injustice that keep us from seeing, celebrating, and embracing the full humanity of others. We get to join in shutting down all the messages that tell us we aren’t good enough for God.

We hear the voice in the wilderness. We are the voice in the wilderness—crying out for the world to hear:

‘Prepare the way of the Lord,
make his paths straight.
⁵Every valley shall be filled,
and every mountain and hill shall be made low,
and the crooked shall be made straight,
and the rough ways made smooth;
⁶and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’ ”

All flesh. All humanity. All shall see the salvation of God. No exceptions.

This is preparing the way of the Lord.

Amen.

Waiting

Sermon preached Sunday, December 2, 2018, the First Sunday of Advent, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

For Christians, this is a special time. As a church, today, we celebrate the new year—the new liturgical year, that is. Today is the first Sunday of Advent, the first Sunday in a yearly cycle of readings and festivals that begin with preparation and hope and end, as they did last year, with proclaiming Christ’s reign on earth on Christ the King Sunday, which we celebrated last week.

We can fall into a bit of a trap when Advent begins. After all, decorations are already up and lining the streets and filling our homes. Radio stations have long since switched to all Christmas music, all the time. Holiday items have been filling store shelves for weeks already. This is when I like to try and separate my “secular” Christmas celebration for my religious one. After all, Christmas doesn’t actually begin in the church until Christmas Eve! However, I enjoy the music and lights and cookies and decorations just as much as anyone and I partake in these yearly rituals with great joy…while still recognizing and holding dear the quieter observance of Advent in worship that my faith calls me to.

Keeping Advent in a meaningful way isn’t easy. With the world around us shouting that Christmas is practically here already, the temptation to skip ahead to Christmas and the birth of Christ is great. The even greater temptation is to view the season of Advent as a sort of chronological marking of time before Christ’s birth: weeks where we acknowledge the pregnancy and call stories of Mary and Joseph, but don’t see them as valuable in and of themselves. The reality is quite different.

These weeks are not used to tell the pregnancy and conception stories of Jesus. They’re also not used to put a damper on our holiday cheer by delaying our celebration of Jesus’ birth or by taking away chances to sing beloved carols. Instead, the Sundays of Advent call us into a time of anxious hope, expectation, and anticipation. These weeks, when the days are shorter, and shadows are longer, these weeks “awake[n] our longing for the surprising ways God comes to us.” (S&S Preaching: Year C 2016, p.19) We aren’t pretending we don’t know Christ was born. Christ was. We aren’t pretending we don’t know God’s promises. We do. No, in these four weeks, “we mean to be a people who know what time it is and are willing to wait for what will come.” (ibid.)

Think about the readings today. What did you hear? There is no story of John the Baptist preparing the way…that will come later. There is no angel greeting Mary or Joseph…that will have to wait. Instead, we have Jesus describing signs and times to come. We have the prophet Jeremiah describing God’s future action. Paul writes to the church in Thessalonica that believers should be strengthened in faith. And all of this is because of the both/and nature of Advent, of God’s work in the world, of our entire lives as Christians.

The readings today offer two seemingly conflicting parts. In the words from the prophet and from Paul and from Jesus himself, there are statements of caution, like “be on guard,” and statements of comfort, like, “Judah will be saved and Jerusalem will live in safety.” Both are true. Both are God’s word for us. And both are the essence of Advent. “Be alert” and “The days are surely coming…when [God] will fulfill the promise [God] made.” Both.

Waiting. Hoping. Expecting. Anticipating. These are the words of Advent—the emotions of Advent. And there is no time that these feelings are harder to live with than the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas Day. We have to-do lists for decorations to put up, food to make, parties to plan and attend, presents to buy and wrap, every last drop of holiday merriment to wring out of these busy days. The idea of waiting is hard to consider. The notion of being okay with that waiting is even harder to wrap our minds around.

But that’s what Advent is: waiting, wrapped in hope and expectation. Waiting.

What are you waiting for? What is humanity and all of creation waiting for?

We are waiting for the full reign of Christ to come. We are waiting for our Wonderful Counselor who will right every wrong and bring about justice and equity. We are waiting for our Mighty God who shows strength by being vulnerable and coming to live among us. We are waiting for the Everlasting Father who created us and names us as beloved children. We are waiting for the Prince of Peace who will end all war, violence and strife.

We are waiting for wrongs to be righted and oppression to cease. We are waiting for our relationships, our lives and the whole earth to be made whole once more. We are waiting for hunger and thirst and pain and death to no longer have power over us.

Of course, we are always waiting for these things. We are always longing for them. But Advent puts that longing into stark relief. As the celebration of the incarnation creeps nearer and nearer, we are made more and more aware of all the ways our world falls short and how desperately we need the presence of God with us. God with us…literally, Emmanuel.

And so…we wait. And we watch. And we hope. And we prepare. We prepare to invite Jesus into our world once more.

To close, I’d like to share with you a poem by Mary Oliver, a Pulitzer Prize winning poet. Here is what she has to say in her poem, “Making the House Ready for the Lord”:

Dear Lord, I have swept and I have washed but
still nothing is as shining as it should be
for you. Under the sink, for example, is an
uproar of mice it is the season of their
many children. What shall I do? And under the eaves
and through the walls the squirrels
have gnawed their ragged entrances but it is the season
when they need shelter, so what shall I do? And
the raccoon limps into the kitchen and opens the cupboard
while the dog snores, the cat hugs the pillow;
what shall I do? Beautiful is the new snow falling
in the yard and the fox who is staring boldly
up the path, to the door. And still I believe you will
come, Lord: you will, when I speak to the fox,
the sparrow, the lost dog, the shivering sea-goose, know
that really I am speaking to you whenever I say,
as I do all morning and afternoon: Come in, Come in.

We wait. We prepare. We ready our hearts and our homes and say to God, “Come in.”

Amen.