2019 Year-in-Review

DELIVERED AT REVOLUTION ANNAPOLIS 29 DECEMBER 2019

This morning, we are wrapping up 2019 with a year-in-review message. We want to return to the question that launched our teaching for the year–Why Church?–and explore what answers we might have discovered in our 52 times of teaching this year. 

I should say right here at the beginning that, historically, wrap-up sermons are my very favorite ones to write. I truly enjoy the challenge and the opportunity to tie the loose threads together, and there is something wonderful, at least in my mind, when we get to the end of a long project like this and we can look back and finally say, “Ah! That’s what we’ve been chasing! That’s what all of those little steps were leading us towards!” 

But this morning, I’m a bit frustrated, to be honest. Here’s why: as some of you know, I’m returning to graduate school this spring to pursue a Master’s degree in Christian Ministry. It’s my first formal training in religious work and study, and although I’m a bit fearful, I’m mostly eager to see where this road leads. 

But this past week, I tried to get an early start on my reading for my first classes next month, so I picked up a book called Spiritual Direction by Henri Nouwen. It’s good so far–I’m about halfway through–but right out of the gate, Nouwen hit me over the with a proverbial 2×4. He says in the Introduction to his book that finding answers to spiritual questions is typically a sign that you have gotten something wrong. And then, he goes on to say the kinds of questions we should be wary of answering are the big ones, like who are we? Who is God? And what is the church? We started this year with almost exactly that question! What do you mean we’re not supposed to answer it??

So, here we are today, eager to summarize what we’ve learned in a tidy, 30-minute package…and it just might be the case that summarizing is going to miss the point altogether. 

Well, crap. 

But of course Nouwen doesn’t leave us completely in the lurch. He goes on to say that asking good questions can still be useful…so long as it leads us to increasingly thoughtful and purposeful questions. So, perhaps that’s what can guide us this morning: instead of remembering our answers, we can look for what better questions a year of asking Why Church? has led us to. 

This year, we have worked through 10 sermon series. Back in January, we framed up the purpose of the local church as the creation of a community where we can belong, grow in our beliefs, and gradually become who God intends for us to be, to the betterment of the community that surrounds us. Our question–“why church?”–led us to ask, “How can I help others belong?” And we used slips of paper and a fishbowl to create an excuse to meet together and eat together. We asked, “what do I really believe, and how can I learn more?” And we asked, “What is it I’m supposed to be, anyway? What am I becoming, as a Christian…and how can I trust that this commitment to the church will bear fruit?”

In February, we started an exploration of the Book of Acts that lasted for the entire year. This book, which summarizes the life of the first Christian church through the stories of its first two leaders, Peter and Paul, challenged us to ask, “who is the church for?” and “how can we stay open and generous as a community, even when it’s scary or hard?” 

We went on, in March, to talk about the importance of acknowledging the messiness of our lives by remembering the messiness of Jesus’s story and exploring the emotional power of sharing our own messes with one another. We asked ourselves, “how am I doing, really?” and “where am I struggling? Where are my doubts?” This led us to begin sharing stories of our messes on Sundays, which we did more than 20 times this year. 

In April, we prepared for Easter by talking about shalom and the wholeness our God brings to all stories, including our own. We painted ceramic tiles, broke them, and remade them into something beautiful so we could remember to ask, “what is God doing with my brokenness? What is he making in me?”

We studied the Old Testament book of Malachi, a prophet who asked, “what worship does God really accept?” and danced around his own answer to that question by asking, “why do we so often forget who God is and who God has been for us?”

And that led us to a summer talking about the Stories We Tell as a church: we read through the “classic” Bible stories of the Old Testament and asked, “why was this a story worth remembering and retelling for so long? Why do we still tell it? What is it trying to show us about our God?”

In the fall, we read James’s letter to the church, where he says that faith without works is dead, not because we are trying to earn our salvation, but because we are always living out the things we believe. This difficult truth led us–led me–to ask, “What does my life reveal about what I really think is true about myself, about this world, and about God?” “What questions or doubts can I work out by putting what God says into action in my life?”

We spent October talking about the importance of grief in a community of faith, and it was our second series of the year to phrase its title in the form of a question: “How long, O Lord?” We learned how to sit with one another in suffering, not rushing to quick answers (shut up, Henri Nouwen!!), but allowing the hurt we feel to rest on the broader shoulders, first, of our community, and then, of our Savior. 

And after heading back into the book of Acts, we arrived at the start of this month in the season of Advent, where we challenged ourselves to experience church in ways that might not be as comfortable to us, but which prompt more questions about what church is really for: “why do we sing? Why do we pray? Why do we confess? Why do we listen? Why do we give? And why do we gather?”

In all of this, we answered our big question, time and again, with more questions: Why Church? Because we can’t figure everything out on our own. We need one another. We need help. And when we gather, we are able to do two contradictory things at once: 

• We can share comfort with one another
• We can share discomfort with one another

I’ve been joking lately that I’ve started to see my job in preparing sermons each week as an exercise in sharing my discomfort with you. I’ve made that a joke because, honestly, it’s a really scary thing for me to be discovering right now. I want our church to grow: I want more people to find comfort here, and to love this community as much as I do. But if all we find is comfort…I’m learning, well, we aren’t fully what the church is supposed to be. Why church? Because we need a place of real love and acceptance and friendship in all of our lives. But also: why church? Because real living needs to be restless, too. It needs challenge and even unpleasantness. It needs a certain amount of discomfort. Or, to put that another way, a church, a community, and people themselves need purpose. 

I am a big fan of survival stories; I always have been. They are stories that make life more visible by stripping away all the ornaments of our lives that make seeing the thing itself so difficult. They are human stories, at their most essentially human. 

The Endurance, trapped in sea ice.

Among the most remarkable survival stories of all time is the story of the Shackleton Expedition to Antarctica between 1914 and 1917. Ernest Shackleton was a British explorer absolutely intent on being the first human being to stand at the South Pole, but when he was beaten to that goal by Roal Amundsen in 1911, he set his sights on another record: being the first person to cross Antarctica from sea to sea. He set out in 1914 with a crew of 28 on a ship called the Endurance, and his plan was to sail as far south as possible, leave the ship in a place called Vahsel Bay, cross the continent by land, and then board a second ship, the Aurora, and escape to Australia. But in January of 1915, the Endurance was locked in by sea ice hundreds of miles from its destination. The icepack began to drift, and eventually, it crushed and destroyed the ship. Shackleton and 28 men were abandoned, ship-less, on an ice floe in the Antarctic Sea. They lived there for 2 months as the floe drifted away from the pole and land. In time, the floe itself broke up, and the expedition survived 5 days at sea in lifeboats before becoming stranded on a barren, rocky, and seal-infested place called Elephant Island. After establishing a camp there, Shackleton took the 5 most cantankerous members of the crew and set off in a refitted lifeboat for a 700-mile, open-ocean sail to a rescue station on South Georgia island. After 3 weeks they made it, and 5 months later, Shackleton returned for his crew on Elephant Island. All in all, the expedition survived more than a year-and-a-half in the Antarctic after their ship sank. Not one crew member was lost. No similar feat, under similar circumstances, has ever managed such a positive result. 

So, what was Shackleton’s secret? How did he keep his men alive for so long, under such impossibly-dangerous conditions? Part of the answer has always been the makeup of his crew: when he was recruiting for the expedition, Shackleton famously valued chemistry and good humor above experience. He would ask potential crewmen if they could sing, or if they would like to perform in amateur plays. He asked about their hobbies, whether they owned pets. And on the expedition, he insisted on democratized labor, with even officers doing every chore. Everyone ate meals together. They had nightly story times. They had what we would most certainly call a comfortable community. 

But they also had purposeful and routine discomfort. Even when they were adrift on the ice floe, Shackleton charted their position multiple times per day, showing the crew how their drift might lead them to land. When the ice broke up and they survived the horrific journey to Elephant Island, he waited only a day before he had everyone begin building the boat for the journey to South Georgia Island…a journey any seamen would tell you is impossible in an open boat. And when the time came to leave, he didn’t take the best sailors, but the men who were beginning to fray at the seams and grow discouraged. He knew rescue could be six months away for the rest of the crew, even if his journey was successful; they wouldn’t survive without hope. 

And they wouldn’t survive without purpose. The discomfort wasn’t arbitrary; it was always aimed–however naively, however hopefully–at a greater goal. 

A healthy church isn’t just a place where we can be safe and comfortable. It has to be more than that: it has to be a place where we are always being reminded of the goal set out for us: to be more fully and completely and personally human. We are in the recovery business: each and every one of us wants and needs more than just coping skills or survival skills…we need to be able to believe that we can be more of what God intends for us to be. That we can change. That we can be transformed. That there is a purpose, and a plan; that there is a captain who still believes we can make it. Who will work to make it so. 

And that is who Jesus is for us. It’s why his resurrection is so important to us: he’s not just a teacher who left us good advice…he is alive, and he is working out our rescue, even now. Our restoration. The fullness of who we are. 

There are three passages from Scripture we have already looked at this year that I would like to return to as we focus on God’s word for the remainder of our time this morning. Together, I think they lead us, not to an answer to the question ‘why church?’, but to better questions, about who we are as a church family, what we are able to do as we wait on our Savior, and where all of this journey is taking us. 

The first comes from the book of Hebrews, and it was the very first passage we studied in 2019. In it, the anonymous author of the letter writes to two factions of Jewish Christians seeking resolution. They wrote,

Hebrews 10:19-25

Therefore, brothers and sisters, since we have confidence to enter the Most Holy Place by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way opened for us through the curtain, that is, his body, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near to God with a sincere heart and with the full assurance that faith brings, having our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from a guilty conscience and having our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together (as some are in the habit of doing), but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.

The author is reminding the Jews of the early church that the heartbeat of Christian faith is the same as the heartbeat of Judaism. At the center of Jewish worship was the the “Most Holy Place,” or the traditional resting place, in the very center of the Temple, of the Ark of the Covenant, which was understood to be God’s dwelling place on Earth. The Most Holy Place was so sacred, no one could enter other than the High Priest, and then, only on one day of the year, and after a long series of purifying rituals. The focus of the entire faith was on the reverence and holiness of this place…but it was something kept at a distance from almost every Jewish person. 

But the author of Hebrews is reminding these people of the early church that by being a sinless priest, Jesus has the power and the authority and the purity to hold that curtain open for us. His body is the doorway, and through him, each and every one of us–even non-Jews, or tax collectors, or prostitutes, or…I don’t know, bank robbers!–all of us have been ushered inside. Through Jesus, we are made clean…and given access. 

But access to what? What happens inside this Most Holy Place? What have we been invited into? We’ve been invited to draw near to God, with a sincere heart, and with the full assurance that faith brings. We can bring ourselves to him…so he can put us to perfect use. We have been given purpose. 

So what does the author of the letter say next? Do we take our turns heading in to see God like a general on a battlefield or a CEO in his office, waiting on him to hand over some envelope with our very own secret mission or job assignment on it? Not at all! God’s interview process with us is reflected in the interview process that Shackleton held for his potential crew: we’re not here for our skills…we’re here for our compatibility. Our kindness. Our ability, as the Hebrews passage says, to “spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together…but encouraging one another.” The point of our faith isn’t to come together into God’s presence once a week so we can walk out of here and spend the next 6 days alone, head down on our individual mission. We have been drawn together, by the Holy Spirit himself!, so we can walk together, day in and day out. Why church? The better question is WHO is the church? Who is with me on this journey?

The second passage I want to look at this morning is from Paul’s letter to the churches of Rome, and it’s one we studied just a few weeks ago. Paul writes, 

Romans 15:1-6

We who are strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak and not to please ourselves. Each of us should please our neighbors for their good, to build them up. For even Christ did not please himself but, as it is written: “The insults of those who insult you have fallen on me.” For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through the endurance taught in the Scriptures and the encouragement they provide we might have hope.

 

May the God who gives endurance and encouragement give you the same attitude of mind toward each other that Christ Jesus had, so that with one mind and one voice you may glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.

If the passage from Hebrews reminds us of who we ought to be to one another here in the church, this letter is reminding us that what we have found inside this place needs to spread outside of it, too. He writes, “each of us should please our neighbors for their good, to build them.” The encouragement and “same attitude of mind” that Jesus brings to our friendships with other believers ought to be rewiring us into the kinds of people who can live as examples of love and hope and kindness and friendship for others. 

There is simply no other outcome as we follow the example of Jesus more and more closely…especially if we are following that example together! But this is also so often the place we lose focus as Christians: we figure out that we like Jesus; we might even love him. He seems wise; he seems generous and kind; his teachings about Scripture and about God bring a unity and a hopeful trajectory to the messy stories of the Bible. Jesus is worth our devotion. He is someone to follow. 

And, as much as we might see Jesus and think to ourselves, “I’d like to live more like that guy,” there are other parts of who Jesus is that make full identification with him difficult. He can work miracles, for one. He lives 2000 years ago, for two. And he is also tortured and killed. The inaccessibility of those parts of his example can lead us to see identification with Jesus as a bit of a “buffet” scenario: “he has everything that is good and worth imitating; I’ll fill a plate now, and come back for more when I have these things figured out.” 

But what Paul subtly reminds us of in this passage is that following Jesus’s example isn’t something we can do by focusing on ourselves, even when our self-focus is meant for self-improvement. Why? Because Jesus’s life pours out to others. That’s what drew us to him. If we’re going to be like him, our focus itself has to change from how living like Jesus makes us better people to how other people are worth sharing our whole selves for. That’s true imitation. And it’s the kind of challenge that depends on a community…because it’s not something that’s possible to do on your own. 

Our lives, Paul says, are each small voices that together make up a chorus “glorifying God.” There are no choruses of one, no matter how beautiful you sound!

The last passage today comes from the book of Revelation, and if these first two passages remind us of the community we find in the church and the purpose that erupts from truly following the example of Jesus, these verses point to where all of this is headed. The apostle John writes, 

Revelation 19:6-10

 Then I heard what sounded like a great multitude, like the roar of rushing waters and like loud peals of thunder, shouting:

“Hallelujah! For our Lord God Almighty reigns. Let us rejoice and be glad and give him glory! For the wedding of the Lamb has come, and his bride has made herself ready. Fine linen, bright and clean, was given her to wear.”

(Fine linen stands for the righteous acts of God’s holy people.)

Then the angel said to me, “Write this: Blessed are those who are invited to the wedding supper of the Lamb!” And he added, “These are the true words of God.”

At this I fell at his feet to worship him. But he said to me, “Don’t do that! I am a fellow servant with you and with your brothers and sisters who hold to the testimony of Jesus. Worship God!”

Here, John receives a vision of heaven itself, and in a great multitude, with a sound like the roaring of a waterfall and loud peals of thunder, he hears the angels singing not just of God’s glory, but of the preparations of the Church. Throughout the book of Revelation, the Church is described as the bride of Christ, being prepared by the Holy Spirit for the day of her great wedding. And here, the angels sing because the Church is ready. It is clothed in fine linen, bright and clean, and a symbol, John writes, of “the righteous acts of God’s holy people.” The outpouring of selfless love from the church into the world is what we are up to! 

And seeing this, John bows to worship this angel, who amazes him with its beauty and praise. And the angel says…”Don’t do that! I am a fellow servant with you and with your brothers and sisters who hold to the testimony of Jesus. Worship God!” 

What does it mean to get where we are going, as a church? It means being wholly who we are meant to be: servants of love. Jesus opens the door for us and shows us the way…and the way he is showing us is, finally, our way home. We need not feel in awe of the angel: we are kin to him. 

In summary: Why Church? Because we want to walk together towards being wholly who and what we are made to be. To satisfy that deep knowledge that we are meant for something more. To know our Creator, and to make him known by living the echo of him out for others. 

Church is a community where we can:

1. Learn to listen and love and encourage one another
2. Inspire one another to love the world as Jesus loves us
3. Wait with excitement on the fullness and beauty and hope and wholeness of where we are destined to go and who we are learning to be

But…what about phrasing our answer in the form of a question? Henri Nouwen would be quite disappointed by that list! 

Well, let’s close this way, then: Why church? 

Who around us needs to belong? Who among us needs to grow in what they believe? What are we becoming? Where is there a need for compassion, or for love, or for kindness in this world? How is Jesus loving others through us? 

I am so grateful for this family. So grateful. May God use us to sharpen one another, as iron sharpens iron. May Christ give us purpose and hope, even as we can sometimes feel adrift. May the church become ready for the wedding it is meant for. May God’s Kingdom come, may his will be done, on earth, as it is in heaven. Amen.

Deserts of Joy (w/ Help from Marie Kondo and a Rare Super Bloom)

DELIVERED 15 DECEMBER 2019 AT REVOLUTION ANNAPOLIS

Today we are continuing in the third week of our Advent series, and our topic this week is Joy. 

Now, as you might remember, it was around this time last year when the word “joy” made its way into headlines and hearts all over America because of a little show on Netflix called Tidying Up with Marie Kondo. Do any of you remember this show? And its catchphrase? Right: the host of the show, a Japanese organization consultant named Marie Kondo, would walk around a person’s house, empty out drawers, hold up each item, and ask the homeowners, “Does this spark joy?” In the first episode of the show, Kondo says that her understanding of “joy” is like the feeling you get when you hold a puppy. 

And it was at this point Ms. Kondo started to lose me. Because I do not want to hold a puppy. I don’t mind looking at puppies; petting puppies can be fun. But holding a puppy, which is often an animal both excited to be held and not yet housebroken, is a risky business. It does not, at least for me, “spark joy.” But nonetheless, I can accept her point on this. I’m the Scrooge.

Oh my, yes. Very much yes.

But where I will not be moved is on Ms. Kondo’s position on book ownership. In her show, she would often make a big point that no one should own more than 30 books. 30 books!! This is madness! If you have ever visited the Camacho house, you know that our life goal is to live in a house where all walls are composed only of stacked books. We have 4 bookcases in our living room downstairs, one in the kids’ room, and then another 3 in our bedroom. Not to mention the books by the nightstand, the ones in my office, or the 2 boxes of books from my teaching days that are still in storage. We love books; they spark joy for us. What would not spark joy for me would be trying to cut down to just 30 to keep around. 

But of course, I’m deliberately missing Marie Kondo’s point, right? Her show isn’t just about purging books, it’s about organizing our lives…and that’s something we can all grow in. Getting rid of clutter and focusing on the things that matter most to us is a healthy practice for anybody. In a sense, it’s also what the church exists for: we are here to help each other get rid of clutter and focus on the things that matter most. But where our work as a church and Marie Kondo’s work as a TV personality diverge is around the way we are using the word “joy.” For Kondo, “joy”–that holding-a-puppy feeling?–is about small moments of delight that can lift our spirits. She calls it a “spark.” But for Christians, joy is meant to be something different; it’s meant to be something enduring, even when we are faced with hardships. It’s supposed to be an integral part of our life. Like walls of books in my house, joy is supposed to be about a present comfort, even in trying times. 

So, as we get ready to talk more about “joy” over the next twenty minutes, it’s worth asking: is that how you feel? Does your faith “spark” joy? Do you take “present comfort” in it?

Although they come from several different books of the Bible and were written hundreds of years apart from one another, the lectionary readings for this morning nonetheless make a compelling argument about what joy is and where joy comes from. The story begins (once again) in the book of Isaiah. We’ve read passages from Isaiah every week of our Advent study so far, and the reason is that Isaiah is the prophet who talks most clearly about the coming of the “Messiah,” who is promised to be the one in whom we will find real joy. Since we, as Christians, believe that Jesus not only claimed to be but actually was that Messiah, the prophecies of Isaiah are favorite readings this time of year: they remind us that Jesus didn’t just drop out of the sky and make things up about himself; his life fulfilled prophecy. So, with all of that in mind, we find ourselves today in Isaiah chapter 35, when the prophet writes about Jesus’s arrival that:

Isaiah 35:1-2

The desert and the parched land will be glad;

    the wilderness will rejoice and blossom.

Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom;

    it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy.

The joy of Jesus’s arrival–the joy of Scripture–is consistently like this: it is the joy of parched land, suddenly filled with water. This metaphor certainly makes sense for a desert people! But it is also helpful for us, too. What does it mean for joy to be like water in a desert? What does that say about where we are living? And what does it say about the work joy can accomplish in our lives? Can joy really bring a “present comfort”…in a desert environment?

I believe there are three major pieces to this desert illustration that can help us better understand the Biblical description of joy. The first is about setting, the second is about identity, and the third is about attention.

To start with setting: if the place joy finds us is in the desert, what does that tell us about where God says we are in our lives?

I would contend that it tells us that God knows life is difficult. If I were to ask you today whether you feel like your life more closely resembles a desert or a rainforest, I can guess what the majority of your answers would be. We rarely feel like life comes easy. But it would seem that life coming easy isn’t a prerequisite for joy…in fact, difficulties are. God knows that life is hard, but his word insists over and over again that he is willing to come to where we are rather than make us come to him. What is the setting for a Biblical sense of joy? It’s the mixed up, uncertain, and challenging place you are in the midst of right now.

So then what happens there? This gets to that second piece, about identity: who are we, here in the middle of these difficult situations?

In the metaphor Isaiah uses, we are the seeds underneath the dirt and sand. As we wait on Jesus’s arrival we are dormant; we might even seem to be dead. But when the floodwaters come, we burst into life, and in this bursting, we find and express the joy the capacity for which has always been inside us. This isn’t because of something we do under our own power; it’s the natural reaction we have to Jesus’s arrival. Isaiah writes that “the wilderness will rejoice…like the crocus, it will burst into bloom; it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy.” Joy is the realization we have when we see the things God makes bloom in the deserts of our lives. 

Two things are really important about this metaphor: first, you don’t make yourself bloom. God does that. And second, if Jesus’s coming makes flowers bloom in the deserts of our lives, that means the seeds of those flowers must already be there, just waiting on water to make them beautiful. So…how did they get there? 

The answer is that flowers have bloomed here before. 3 years ago, in 2016, Death Valley National Park in California experienced an event that became known as a “super bloom.” Although Death Valley itself is one of the hottest, driest, and least hospitable ecosystems on the planet, a significant winter snowpack and plentiful spring rains led to a rare and incredible sight, as a stretch of desert wasteland 30 miles long was transformed into a multicolored carpet of vibrant wildflowers. People traveled from all over the country to see it; you should look it up! 

But then, the following summer, a predictable thing happened: yet again, tourists flocked to the park to see the flowers…but none were there. The reason is because “super blooms” are unpredictable: they depend on just the right water conditions to happen. The last one prior to the event in 2016 was in the mid-90s! But here’s the key thing: even though the water didn’t come in 2017, or in 2018, or this past summer, either…the seeds from those flowers three years ago are waiting right now in the soil. They are buried there in the dirt and sand, and they will stay there for years or even decades before they have a chance to emerge. And one day, when they do, it will seem like a wonder all of its own: out of death comes beautiful life! But the lesson each super bloom really teaches us is that even in a place where life seems impossible, there is evidence of past miracles just under the surface. 

Here’s where I’m going with this: the first piece of understanding “joy” as we see it in Scripture has to do with recognizing that life is tough, and God knows this. It’s a realization of setting. But the second big piece of understanding Biblical “joy” is a realization of identity: you are already evidence of a miracle. It is a miracle you are here. It is a miracle to have breath, and to exist in this world where you are so inescapably and frustratingly and also wonderfully connected to everyone else. Your life already matters. It’s Christmas time, so let’s just say it: you are George Bailey! Even in the moment when things are at their most difficult, our lives provide evidence of the possibility of water. Our thirst is both evidence of our need for miracles and evidence that they have been here before; that flowers bloomed, and seeds were planted. We’re not waiting on something we have no confidence in; we are waiting on something we should have full confidence in because it’s in the midst of happening already! God’s love isn’t something that was withheld from us until Jesus showed up; Jesus’s arrival is a culmination of a story of God’s continuous love for his creation from the very beginning. 

This tension brings us to the last realization this morning, which is one of attention. 

The desert, as any nature documentary will tell you, is a trick of the eye: what appears to be barren and empty is full of secret life, adapted and even flourishing. The little mice scurrying from hole to hole; the flowers blooming each night and closing up each morning; the owls living in the trunk of the cactus. The water hoarded up from the last rain, stored in roots and branches. There is life here! It’s an ecosystem that thrives by treasuring every drop of water that falls in it. But to see it, you have to be looking for it. 

One of the readings the Lectionary pairs with our reading from Isaiah this morning is a passage from the Gospel of Matthew about an exchange of messages between Jesus and a man named John the Baptist. In it, John–who once baptized Jesus– is in prison, and he has been brought to a place of doubt. So, he asks Jesus: “are you really who you say you are?” Jesus replies, 

Matthew 11:4-10

“Go back and report to John what you hear and see: The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is proclaimed to the poor. Blessed is anyone who does not stumble on account of me.” As John’s disciples were leaving, Jesus began to speak to the crowd about John: “What did you go out into the wilderness to see?”

One part of what Jesus is saying is that the proof of who he is can be found in what he does for the seeds in the desert: he tells John, “the blind can see! The lame can walk! The dead are raised! And good news is proclaimed to the poor.” All of these problems–the disease, the death, and even poverty–existed in the desert of Israel before Jesus was there; they were like seeds. But now that he has arrived, what was hidden is being revealed. This, we have to assume, was joy for John. 

And then, Jesus adds a critical question for John (and for us, too): he asks, “What did you go out into the wilderness to see?” Why are you in the desert, anyway? And the only logical answer, I want to contend, is because that’s where we can see the clearest picture of God’s continuous providence and love. It’s the place of every day miracles. 

So, are we really looking for them? 

Perhaps one of the reasons the Bible uses deserts as a way of discussing joy isn’t because they’re barren–they’re not!–but because they require attention. Joy, as Scripture describes it, is a reaction that follows from 3 specific realizations in our lives:

1. We realize where we are: we are in a desert
2. We realize who we are: we are the seeds of miracles, past and future
3. We realize what is already happening here: God always brings the water

When we can hold these three realizations in front of us all at once, we could hardly feel anything but joy! Think it through: 

• Where are you right now? What is hard in your life? What is wearing you down or making you afraid? You don’t have to leave where you are to go to some better place to find hope! It is okay for you to feel discouraged or afraid. God knows where you are, and he is a God who comes to us.

 

• Who are you right now? Are you feeling guilt or shame about yourself? Are you afraid you don’t measure up? That very worry is evidence that you believe in what seems like a miracle; it’s evidence of hope. You have always been loved, and your hunger for goodness is the hunger of a seed, miraculously planted, and waiting for water to come again!

 

• And lastly, what is happening already, right there in the desert where you find yourself? What little miracles of life are around you? What proof do you see not only that God will show up, but that he is already here? Jesus has come! There is community and growth and challenge and support and love all around you, if you want it. Are you paying attention?

There is a story I used to teach called “After I Was Thrown in the River and Before I Drowned.” It’s written from the perspective of a dog who wanders neighborhoods at night and loves races with his dog friends in the woods. It’s very silly. The dog speaks exuberantly about the joy of running as fast you can; he writes mournfully about all of the people trapped in their houses watching television instead of running. 

At the end of the story, the dog tries to make an enormous jump over a ravine while he is racing–he loves jumping most of all–but the banks of the ravine have eroded in the rain, and he slips and falls into the river. He drowns. It’s not a spoiler: it’s in the title of the story. But then the story continues: the dog goes to dog heaven, and once there, he is unbelievably happy. He can run without tiring, he can jump without fear. He misses people, but he is eager for them to find the delight and the freedom he has found. 

At the very end, the dog says something curious: he says, 

The one big surprise is that as it turns out, God is the sun. It makes sense, if you think about it. Why we didn’t see it sooner I cannot say. Every day the sun was right there burning, our and other planets hovering around it, always apologizing, and we didn’t think it was God. Why would there be a God and also a sun? Of course God is the sun.

Of course, I am not making the case that God is the sun. But I will say I think about this passage a good bit, and there is something deeply and beautifully true about it: how often do I ignore God’s love as I am experiencing it right now, like sunlight on my skin, because I’m scanning the distance for a sign of God’s love just over the horizon? This silly story challenges me to feel God’s presence in my life as much as I can. I’m not always very good at this! But it’s something I want to do a better job of paying attention to. 

I wonder if this isn’t at least part of what joy is: realizing that God is here, in this desert, shining on me so much I wouldn’t know what to do without him. How can I notice him more? How can I be more aware of where I am, who I am, and what is happening even now, all around me? 

I’m grateful for all of you, my friends. I hope the weeks ahead are ones of ever-sparking joy.

A New (and an Old) Hope

This morning, we are continuing in our traditional study of the Advent season by exploring how Jesus’s arrival on this earth both satisfies the ancient hope of the Jewish people and extends the promise of that hope to us and to everyone else, for all time. It is the week of hope in the Christmas tradition, and our readings this morning from the Common Lectionary each point us to these moments in the Bible’s story when the possibility of the kind of peace we talked about last week–the kind of peace that flows from real justice and real compassion between people, and is so long-lasting that it causes people to lay down their weapons of war forever–when the hope people had in that kind of peace was threatened. Hope, it would seem, is supposed to be the fuel we use when the world is discouraging, or the bread we eat to keep our faith from starving. Hope, these passages tell us, is the anchor of our very religious and spiritual lives. 

But, if I’m honest with all of you this morning, I’m anxious to talk with you about hope at all because I’m not always sure what that word means. In fact, I’m rarely sure of it. I know this is a bit of a heavy opening to our teaching time today, but it gets us to the big questions we need to answer if we’re going to make much sense of what we are reading today about the hope we have in Jesus. Those questions are:

1. What is hope, really?
2. And in the moments when I think I might have found it…how do I keep it? 

When I think about at least the word hope as I have encountered it in my life, it is hard for me to not think about Star Wars. Part of the reason for that is of course that the first of the Star Wars movies is subtitled “A New Hope.” But the bigger reason is because I was born in 1982, and that means that I was 15 years old when the original Star Wars movies were rereleased in theaters in 1997.

So true, so true.

I cannot express to you in words how excited I was when this happened. My brother and I were obsessed with our old VHS copies of those movies, to the extent where it is hard for me to remember any indoors memories from my childhood where those movies weren’t on a TV in the background. I loved getting to see them on the big screen, and when it was announced just after the movies rereleased that they were going to be making prequels…I have never and will never again experience that level of excitement and anticipation again in my life. I. Had. Hope. A “new” hope? Not quite yet.

But of course you know how this story ends, right? When the first of the Star Wars prequels came out in 1999, I literally skipped school to go see it. Most of my classmates did, too. It was an extraordinary event. And when we left the theater after it was over, we were still pretty excited. Sure, there were some things that seemed weird and silly. But it was fun, right? Right?? 

“A script editor? An EDITOR?! How DARE you!! I AM Star Wars!!!”  – George Lucas, presumably

It took awhile, and several more viewings, for real doubts to kick in. And then, a few weeks later, one of my more courageous friends finally got up the guts to say at the lunch table: “I don’t know, guys…I think it might’ve sucked.” And I still remember that in that moment, it was like a spell was broken: suddenly, I and all my friends started to really see the movie in a way we hadn’t given ourselves permission to see it before. Suddenly we started to notice the weird things, and the boring things–an opening set piece on trade negotiations?–and the awkward and uncomfortable things–why are these two characters who we know are going to get married one day starting their relationship when one of them is a 9 year old? Eventually, I had to admit it to myself: “The Phantom Menace” is a bad movie. But hey! There’s a second one coming out next year! Maybe it will be better! Right? 

And that was my “new” hope: not a hope rooted in the confidence of a childhood spent in love with these movies…but a hope fighting against a fear that the next one might not be any better than the last one. Which it wasn’t. 

Here’s where this is all going: there are two kinds of hope in our vocabulary. The more common of the two is the kind I had after experiencing real disappointment with my childhood heroes: it’s a cautious hope, and it’s a bit sad; it stands in as a way of saying, “I really want this thing to be true…even if it’s not very likely to be.” We use this definition when we “hope” our favorite team is going to win a game or when we “hope” we get some snow this winter.

But there’s another kind of hope that is much older and much more important for us to remember…especially because it’s the kind we most easily forget. It’s the hope I had when I first sat down in a theater seat in 1999 and the “Lucasfilm” logo appeared on the screen. It’s the hope of expectation and confidence: it’s a way of saying, “I know this is going to happen.” It’s a hope that looks forward to proving itself true. It’s the hope of real belief. 

This week, our primary reading comes from Paul’s letter to the Romans, which, as we saw in our study of Acts, is the letter Paul writes at the end of his missionary journeys, after he is arrested and eventually shipped off to the capital of the Empire (Roman, not Galactic). In it, he is again addressing the tensions between Jewish Christians and Gentile Christians, who continue to struggle to worship in peace with one another. The Gentiles continue to feel judged and discriminated against by the Jews…and the Jews continue to feel like the Gentiles are receiving special privileges. Neither party has as much hope in the peace Paul and the other church leaders have been talking about as they used to. And so, facing this building sense of disappointment, Paul writes,

Romans 15:4-13

For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through the endurance taught in the Scriptures and the encouragement they provide we might have hope.

May the God who gives endurance and encouragement give you the same attitude of mind toward each other that Christ Jesus had, so that with one mind and one voice you may glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Accept one another, then, just as Christ accepted you, in order to bring praise to God. For I tell you that Christ has become a servant of the Jews on behalf of God’s truth, so that the promises made to the patriarchs might be confirmed and, moreover, that the Gentiles might glorify God for his mercy. 

What is most notable to me, at least in this first half of our passage this morning, is the prescription Paul offers for the tensions in the Roman church: he says that the way to rediscover hope is through reading Scripture. This is a remarkable answer to give to people who are in the midst of an argument! Allow me to illustrate: Are you disappointed by your pastor? Read your Bible! Fighting with your neighbor? Read your Bible! Angry at your parents? Read your Bible! Feuding with your spouse? Read your Bible! 

At first, it feels a bit like a Band-Aid, doesn’t it? Or maybe, if you’re of a certain age, being told to take Robitussin? It doesn’t feel like a sincere effort to fix what’s wrong. So, what is Paul getting at? How is he imagining that “reading Scripture” as a way of rediscovering hope is supposed to work? 

Well, to take Paul at his word, what he starts off by saying is a pretty bold claim all by itself. He says in verse 4 that at least two reasons Scripture exists are in order to: 

1. Teach endurance
2. Provide encouragement

And he says that if we allow Scripture to do what it intends to do in us, these two things will generate hope. So, how? 

The technical answer comes a little further down in verse 8: Paul says, “for I tell you that Christ has become a servant of the Jews on behalf of God’s truth, so that the promises made to the patriarchs might be confirmed and, moreover, that the Gentiles might glorify God for his mercy.” To break that down just a bit, what Paul is saying is that shn this case, Paul is reminding his readers that some of the pretty confusing parts of Jesus’s life–like becoming a “servant of the Jews” over whom he was also a King–can be explained by looking backwards at the story of the Bible thus far. We can see now that Jesus’s life wasn’t just revolutionary in the sense that it overturned the existing order of things; it was revolutionary in the sense that it brought Scripture full circle, closing out many of the prophecies about the Messiah the Jewish people had been waiting on. Paul says Jesus “became a servant…so that the promises made to the patriarchs,” or the Jewish ancestors, “might be confirmed.” 

So, one technical way the Bible provides hope is by showing us that where we are is part of a plan: it’s not a surprise or a deviation for God. And that can bring us comfort, and it can reassure us that God is at work in our world. To extend the story about Star Wars from earlier (in a possibly-heretical way), this is the “hope” that comes when you hear the original writers and directors and actors from a movie you love are coming back for the sequel: your past experiences with them have given you confidence–which is that synonym for our old-school definition of hope–that things are going according to plan. The wait we are in the middle of–the things we are enduring as we wait–are going to be worth it. 

But the other half of Paul’s technical answer isn’t about the past, it’s about the future. Paul also says here that reading Scripture can provide clarity and encouragement about what is coming. He says that Scripture also helps us to understand what Jesus’s humiliation, and then his glorification, will mean for others. He says Scripture reveals that because of what Jesus has done, “the Gentiles might glorify God for his mercy.” This is an absolutely key piece for Paul, as we saw over and over again in our study of the book of Acts last month: the inclusion of the Gentiles in the Christian faith wasn’t some progressivist agenda trying to water down the Law in order to tell heathens that their heathenishness was no longer a big deal–it was always part of God’s plan. What is happening–what is in that moment dividing the church–was foretold. And if we can see that by the light of the Bible, we can have a truly confident hope that God didn’t just set a plan in motion and see it through…he is working out a plan we are in the midst of yet. And thus our confidence–our hope–isn’t a matter of nostalgia for those times when everything worked out before. It’s a reliance on what we know about what God is doing that can make us excited as we wait and watch for his will to come to pass. So what needs in our lives even now is Paul beginning to point to? 

The last half of our passage this morning might seem a bit tedious, but a closer look reveals it to be an effort on Paul’s part to teach others how to read Scripture well. So, what do these quotations say, and where do they come from?

Paul begins, “As it is written:

‘Therefore I will praise you among the Gentiles;

    I will sing the praises of your name.’”

This is a quotation from Psalm 18, written by David, the greatest of Israel’s kings. David wrote that the Gentiles are worthy of inclusion in worship. Then, Paul writes, “Again, it says,

‘Rejoice, you Gentiles, with his people.’”

Here, he quotes the final book of the Law, the book of Deuteronomy, attributed to none other than Moses. Now, Moses wrote that the Gentiles would “rejoice” alongside God’s people. Next, Paul quotes Psalm 117:

“Praise the Lord, all you Gentiles;

    let all the peoples extol him.”

And finally, he quotes the prophet Isaiah, who says that the Messiah will descend from the “Root of Jesse,” which is to say the line of King David; will “arise to rule over the nations”; and “in him the Gentiles will hope.” For Paul, there was no doubt: Isaiah was describing Jesus, whose mother was a descendent of David, whose name and church had already spread to dozens of nations in a few short decades, and in whom all people can find hope. 

Paul is saying to his readers: do you want peace in light of Rome’s oppressive government? Read Scripture. Do you want to learn how to endure hardship as the church struggles for unity? Remember the fulfilled promises of God. Do you want to be encouraged as you wait on the coming of a world that looks more like God intended it to look? Read what God has done and what he continues to do, that you might have confidence once again in what he says he will do yet. Paul concludes, 

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”

Where does this forgotten and confident hope–where does this distinctly Christian hope–come from? It comes from remembering the still-unfolding story of God. And if we find it, how can we keep it? By reminding ourselves of both God’s promises about what is still to come and God’s perfect faithfulness to what has already happened, through Christ, in our world. 

Perhaps Paul’s answer–that hope comes from reading Scripture–isn’t the Band-Aid it might seem to be. And perhaps “hope” can be more than “wishful thinking” yet; perhaps we can remember a hope that is confident in its expectations about God and about our world.

I was having coffee with someone this week and I was sharing a bit of my nervousness about teaching on “hope” today. And as I confessed that I often struggle to feel a deep and real sense of hope that is detached from worry and insecurity, she said something pretty incredible to me. She said the reason her hope has remained bold and confident is because we live in a world where the greatest possible news that could ever be has already been confirmed. “What is that news?” I asked her. She said it’s that there is a God out there. And MORE, that God pays attention to us. And MORE, that God feels love towards us. And MORE, that God wants to be in a relationship with us. And MORE, that God was willing to pave the way for that relationship by coming here, to be one of us. To live humbly with us, and experience life with us. To suffer with us. To know ridicule and rejection and humiliation with us. Even to cross a bridge not one of us has yet crossed, yet cross it someday we will: our God died with us. AND THEN, in the best bit of news of all, that God who is there–and who loves us, and who wants to be known by us, and who lived among us, and who died as one of us–that God proved his power and authority and, well, God-ness by living again. AND STILL MORE, has offered to share the glory he alone has earned with not just a few of us, or a particular nation or sect of us, but with ALL OF US WHO WILL BELIEVE IN HIM. 

I was moved sitting there in a coffee shop and am still moved standing here this morning. My friend is right: what better news could there ever be than that? Even if you’re not a person of Christian faith (or any faith), what better news could you hope for in this life than that? And that is the story of Scripture. That’s what the book is saying. And it’s also what the Church, for two thousand years, has been saying it saw happen. 

Our hope–my hope–can be a hope of confidence. What God has promised–that great Kingdom of justice and peace and mercy and worship–will come to pass. Your own commitment to the body of Christ represented by this church community is worth it. Your private faithfulness to prayer, and to serving others, and to living generously really does matter. What God is working out in our lives, in our church, and in our world really is coming now, and it is by the light of Scripture that we can really see it. This…is what we hope. It’s not “new” at all. But it is profoundly real…and neverending.

 I want to close this morning with a few lines from the poet Emily Dickinson. I was reminded of them this week, and I would like to share them. Afterwards, I’ll pray for us, and then we can receive Communion together. Dickinson writes of hope: 

“Hope” is the thing with feathers 

That perches in the soul 

And sings the tune without the words 

And never stops – at all 

 

The Problem with Waiting for a God-Sized Rock

DELIVERED 1 DECEMBER 2019 AT REVOLUTION ANNAPOLIS

This morning, we are starting a new series in celebration of the Advent season, and as part of our goal of connecting more deeply with the full body of the church in this series, we are focusing our teaching time around the readings from the Revised Common Lectionary. 

Since this isn’t something we typically do, it’s worth explaining ourselves just a bit! The lectionary is part of a tradition in Christian faith that actually reaches back to the practices of Judaism. At its root, a lectionary is a tool for systematically sharing the words of Scripture with the people of the church. It includes a set order for readings from the Bible, with the intention that over a three year span of time, regular congregants will hear teaching on the a significant majority of the book. Each week, there are 4 readings prescribed: one from the Old Testament, one from the book of Psalms, one from a New Testament letter, and one from a Gospel, or a record of Jesus’s life and ministry. The hope is that the weekly sermons under the lectionary can help us see the ways Scripture ties into itself. It’s meant to be a tool for training us to read Scripture well by showing us the ways God’s story is consistent and how the hope of Jesus is rooted and eternal.

This morning, our readings include parts of the story of Jesus’s ministry and the apostle Paul’s teaching to the Romans, but our central text is actually going to come from the writings of the Old Testament prophet, Isaiah. Specifically, we are going to be looking at a description of a vision Isaiah is given about the coming day of the Messiah, or the prophesied savior of the world. As Christians, we believe that the person Isaiah is talking about in this passage is going to be Jesus, who comes into the world as God incarnate, or “God with flesh on.” But, as we read, we want to try to imagine–at least, at first–that we haven’t met Jesus yet. Instead, we want to try and see these words as they must have seemed to the generations of Jewish people who lived in the 600 years between when they were written down and when Jesus came to fulfill them. Here’s what the text says (Reader’s Note: Because we did not have screens for this week’s service, the verses are broken up and discussed one or two at a time. This might make the reading experience a bit awkward or unusual):

Isaiah 2:1-5

This is what Isaiah son of Amoz saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem:

 In the last days

the mountain of the Lord’s temple will be established

    as the highest of the mountains;

it will be exalted above the hills,

    and all nations will stream to it.

So, even in this first verse, what can we see? Right out of the gate, Isaiah connects the coming of the Messiah to what are called “the last days.” This suggests, of course, that the Messiah will bring about the end of…something…but what? There isn’t an immediate answer in verse 1, but in verse 2, we see the second piece of the story: God is building a “mountain” higher than any other. The mountain is connected to the “temple,” or the place where God is believed to dwell, and it isn’t just higher than everywhere else, it is “exalted,” or praised. Moreover, it is attractive, as “all the nations will stream to it.” This is a reversal of the natural order of things: generally, things stream off of a mountain…not to it! So, what could be so wonderful about this mountain that, first, it will bring about the end of something…and second, it will reverse the way things naturally go? 

The answer comes in verse 3: it’s justice. The arrival of true justice is going to end the days of injustice…and it’s also going to be so attractive, everyone everywhere will want to see it. Isaiah writes, 

Many peoples will come and say,

“Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord,

    to the temple of the God of Jacob.

He will teach us his ways,

     so that we may walk in his paths.”

The law will go out from Zion,

    the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.

He will judge between the nations

    and will settle disputes for many peoples.

What is attractive is that whatever or whoever is in the temple will teach us his ways, so the knowledge he has is going to be available. It will be the Messiah’s nature to both proclaim and exercise justice. And everyone is going to want a piece of that!

Isaiah continues to say that once people come and worship at the mountain,

They will beat their swords into plowshares

     and their spears into pruning hooks.

Nation will not take up sword against nation,

    nor will they train for war anymore.

For the people of Israel, what Isaiah was sharing with them was understood as a promise from God to them to one day bring peace by sending a savior to sit as judge over all the earth. This judgment must be perfect and lasting, as the peace it brings isn’t temporary but persistent: so persistent, in fact, that the people of Israel beat their swords into the blades of a plow. They no longer have need of self-defense: God’s justice is so perfect, these things are unnecessary. 

So, that’s what Isaiah says, and then for 600 years, the people of Israel read and reread Isaiah’s words, and they wait: they wait for God’s perfect, justice-bringing, war-ending, nation-drawing Messiah to come. 

And then, 2000 years ago, a baby is born to everyday people in an everyday town, and when he grows up, this carpenter’s son from an unremarkable village says to the leaders of the Temple that the Messiah they have been waiting for is here…and it is him. And they don’t believe him. Why? 

I think we often fall victim to two mistakes in our judgment that are both relevant to our teaching time this morning. The first is that we always think we need a bigger rock. And the second is that we rarely see things we’re not looking for. 

To explain the first mistake in our judgment, a quick story: this past week, I spent time in South Carolina with my family, including my younger brother by two years, Chris. Now, for most of our lives, Chris and I have gotten along well. But on Thanksgiving day, he and I took a literal walk down “memory lane” by strolling out to a pasture across the street from our childhood home where our family used to keep a small vegetable garden when we were kids. One of my earliest memories of my life in South Carolina takes place in this vegetable garden when my little brother, for reasons unknown to me, dropped an enormous rock on my head while I was sitting and playing in the dirt. It came out of nowhere, and I still remember almost blacking out and then having an enormous knot on my head for what seemed like weeks. Last week, Chris and I were laughing about this, and he told me–for the first time!–that, at least as he recalls it, he did this because I kept throwing small rocks at him as I was playing in the dirt. I was digging, and as I was digging, I was flinging these stones back in his direction where he was playing. He eventually got fed up, found the biggest rock his 3 year old self could hold, and he got me back. 

Why am I telling this story? Well, because one of the things that most effectively keeps us from justice in our lives or in our world is this very principle: that the only way to right the wrong small rocks make is to get a bigger rock. I know, I know: “an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind” (for the record, Gandhi never said that!). But as much as that saying is a bit cheesy, it is also deeply true: we can’t find justice by just looking for bigger rocks. Not really. 

In that story about my brother and me, everyone in this room knows exactly what I did after I got hit by that rock: I went and tattled to my mom! And she probably spanked Chris! I don’t remember that part. 

But to the point here, what I did was go get a bigger rock: in this case, my mom and a wooden spoon. This is simply how we understand justice. And it’s how the Israelites understood justice, too: as they spent 600 years waiting on the Messiah Isaiah described, they were looking for bigger rocks. And their experiences in those 6 centuries amplified what they felt they needed! With every new conquest they were subject to, with every new abuse they were forced to suffer in those years, their hope in the size of this promised justice-bringing rock grew…until it led them to our second common mistake in judgment:

We rarely see things we’re not looking for. 

When Jesus first begins to gather his disciples, he calls a man named Philip who quickly believes and runs to invite his friends to come along. He goes to a man named Nathanael and says, “We have found the one Moses wrote about in the Law, and about whom the prophets also wrote—Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph.” Nathanael replies: “Nazareth! Can anything good come from there?” 

 

Some time later, Jesus returns to his own hometown, speaking with great wisdom in the synagogue and healing many…and the people begin to whisper: “Isn’t this the carpenter’s son? Isn’t his mother’s name Mary, and aren’t his brothers James, Joseph, Simon and Judas? Aren’t all his sisters with us? Where then did this man get all these things?” And the Bible says they took offense at him.

In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus again returns to the synagogue in Nazareth and this time opens up none other than the scroll of Isaiah prophecies about the Messiah and says, plainly, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” And Luke writes that 

Luke 4:28

when they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with rage. They got up, drove him out of the town, and led him to the brow of the hill on which their town was built, so that they might hurl him off the cliff. 

We rarely see things we’re not looking for. 

So, why was Jesus so hard to recognize? And is he actually the “prince of peace” Isaiah prophesied? 

I would contend people struggled to recognize Jesus because he doesn’t represent a bigger rock. The Israelites know the Messiah will be powerful, and they imagine power in the ways they are used to: they are looking for a royal warrior sage, born in a palace, triumphant in battle, and studied in wisdom. The things they need their Messiah to do are so overwhelming the man who will come to do them must be overwhelming, too. They’re looking for King David, crossed with King Solomon, in the body of Samson. Think: Abraham Lincoln, but the size of Paul Bunyan. 

I was told no one would know who Paul Bunyan is, and I should say “Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson” instead. What say you?

And Jesus–born to a lowly mother from a lowly town in, well, a lowly manger–can’t possibly be that. Unless they’ve been looking for the wrong thing, of course. 

So, what does Jesus bring? What is the case for Jesus being the Messiah of Isaiah’s prophecy? In what specific ways is Jesus the mountain of the Lord, drawing all nations to himself, exercising justice so everlasting we forget the ways and weapons of war? 

The peace Jesus brings is the result of a different vision for justice than the one we expect. It’s different precisely because it’s not rooted in conventional might, but in humility, love, and light. 

In the first chapter of his gospel, John describes Jesus as the light of the world. Why light? In part because this is also what it means to have a Temple on the top of the highest mountain, as Isaiah describes: what if the mountain isn’t there only as a demonstration of power, but as a way of lifting something up, for everyone to see? What if the Temple isn’t only a seat of judgment…but an example of justice? A beacon? Which is more likely to accomplish that other miracle Isaiah describes, as the people of the Earth flow up to it? What if they aren’t forced to come…what if they come because they are eager to see what is there? 

In the last verse from that Isaiah passage, the prophet imagines a line of dialogue from the people on their way up to the mountain of God. One says to another,

Isaiah 2:5

 Come, descendants of Jacob,

    let us walk in the light of the Lord.

Almost 700 years later, John the Apostle writes of Jesus that,

John 1:9-13

The true light that gives light to everyone was coming into the world. He was in the world, and though the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him. He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him. Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God—children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband’s will, but born of God.

Jesus’s peace begins with light; it starts with seeing our God, and seeing one another, more clearly.

And the better justice of Jesus has another unexpected twist: not only is Jesus the light of the world…he is also God, come here, in the world, in the flesh. He is empathy incarnate. 

There is something human in this mistake made by generations of Isaiah’s readers: they wanted their God to look, well, more Godlike. But if God is really God, there is no form he could take that isn’t a pretty big step down for him! Does it matter if he arrives in the form of Samson, or even of Paul Bunyan, for that matter? How much closer is Paul Bunyan to the image of God? It would be like an ant expecting its savior to come in the form of a slightly-larger-than-average ant. Which is really a way of asking: what’s the appropriate size of a God-sized rock anyway? 

What is so moving to me about the Jesus story is that this foolishness is completely undercut by the humbleness of Jesus’s birth. The heartbeat of the Jesus story is that God came to be with us. To share fully and empathetically in the experience and the suffering of his Creation. He did this not because he had to, but to show us the true depth of his love. Is that a mission better accomplished in a palace or in a manger? If Christmas is about God with us…what could be more human than this modest birth, to a modest people, in a modest corner of the world? 

It might make Jesus harder to see. But it makes him easier to believe.  

The peace of God is the result of the justice of God. But the justice of God isn’t a matter of bigger rocks…it’s a matter of greater love. Of empathy. Of transparency and light. Of understanding. 

As we head into the Advent season this year, let us be peacemakers of a similar sort: let us be people who strive to see one another. Let us strive to make ourselves known by living honestly and confessing our shortcomings to one another. And let us forgive, knowing we have been forgiven: let us spend this season pursuing reconciliation with one another, loving when (and who) it is hard to love. And then, let us also strive to know the lives and experiences of those who are different than us: let us see our brothers and sisters who are struggling this season, too. Let our eyes be opened, in the light of who Jesus is, to not only act lovingly towards one another, but to feel love for one another. 

Let us see what we might not be looking for. But what we nonetheless need. Praise God.