First Sunday after Christmas Day

 

This Sunday takes precedence over the three Holy Days which follow Christmas Day. As necessary, the observance of one, two, or all three of them, is postponed one day.

Almighty God, you have poured upon us the new light of your incarnate Word: Grant that this light, enkindled in our hearts, may shine forth in our lives; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. [BCP p. 213]

Christmas is over. At least the family gathering, gift opening, festive banquet part of Christmas; the “magical” “holly jolly” “jingle bell” secular, commercialized time of year. Now we can get to work examining the holiday for what it is. It is not a day; it is a season.

Light is an important image in our seasonal collects. This past month I put up our holiday decorations as usual. Sadly, a number of our lighted displays weren’t working properly. I have a gizmo that helps identify and correct lighting issues, and it worked for a couple of the strings, but not for all of them. We have a small set of four trees that line our walkway, but one tree wouldn’t light. I didn’t mind as three trees-a-working seemed more biblically sound anyway.

Through the course of the Advent season, a section of lights on our Christmas tree blinked out and it, too, could not be resurrected, so I simply added a string of healthy, functional lights to keep things normal. The day after Christmas another section gave up the ghost, so this is apparently the end of the road for this particular tree. The fuses are fine, so I have no idea what went wrong. The tree has served us well for a decade or so, anyway, so that’s OK. 

Things break. Things die. Things go dark. Our light is limited. Our collect for the day recognizes that reality. I am generally pretty easy-going. I try not to fret over too many things. I am no Martha in that regard. But I do blow a fuse on occasion. Things do get my goat. There are times my countenance falls, and there are those who will confirm that it’s not good to be around me when that happens. I’m not given to violence – at least not with my fists, feet, or elbows. I turn my pain and anger inward, and a lump of coal is a better companion than I when that happens.

My light is limited, but the Light of all lights has no limits. Just as the sun finished its southward journey at the winter solstice, and the hours of daylight have gotten as short as they will get. From here on out, daylight will begin to increase. Likewise, the Light of the Son has come forth, giving us hope. That light will also grow day by day. We need only pay attention. It happens without effort on our part. Did you know that? The sun rises and sets on its own. Our job is to do our part day by day.

The Collect also makes reference to this Light as “the” new light of (God’s) incarnate Word. What was the old light? Torah? Human conscience? Religious rites and practices? Ancient memories of Eden, when God and humans spent time together in that heavenly oasis?

Perhaps God has not just come down to us in human form. Perhaps God has pulled away the angels with their flaming swords – the ones guarding the Garden Gates – and the gates have once again been opened, and the way to Eden has been revealed. Doesn’t Jesus, later, identify himself as the “Way, the Truth, and the Life” in the Gospel of John (from which we read this day)?

Our collect brings to mind that today is not just a new day, but a new era. “Enkindled” refers to fire. Most lighting these days (including Christmas lighting) is artificial. It is powered by electricity. But in ancient days, if you didn’t have sunlight, you needed to have fire – candles or lamps, or torchlight by which to see. I love watching living flames dance atop candles. I love watching smoke rise and curl, giving shape to the invisible air currents in a room. The flames are alive; they seek (and need) both fuel and air to survive; don’t we all?

The point here is that we are asking God to make our light real, to make our light warm and inviting. Yes, moths are drawn to the flames, but so are those living in darkness. I think Christians ought to be known for the illuminating warmth of living fire, and less for dark threats of fire and eternal damnation – don’t you? I believe that is what we are praying for this First Sunday after Christmas.

Come Jesus, light our fire! Amen.

THE LITTLE GIRL WHO SAID YES

 

The Little Girl Who Said Yes?

A Christmas Sermon (St. Paul’s, Mount Vernon, WA)

12/25/2023

The Rev. Keith Axberg, Ret.

(Based on John 1:1-14)

Feliz Navidad. Joyeux Noel. Buon Natale. God Jul! Merry Christmas.

It’s Christmas morning, but did you notice John’s Gospel is missing all the cinematic effects of the Christmas story? What is the Good News this morning? 

If you were here last night, you heard the emperor make a demand for a census, requiring folks to do some traveling for the holidays; you heard how Mary & Joseph had to travel to the City of David; you saw them look for a place to have a baby, and how that baby was born in a little out-of-the-way place so they could have some privacy; you heard the angels sing; you saw the shepherds come in from the hills to see the little baby wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger; perhaps someone pointed out a special star traveling overhead, stopping over the little town of Bethlehem; they aren’t here yet, and they’re not due for another twelve days, but even now you’re probably anticipating the arrival of some Magi on the road from afar.

That’s the Christmas story, right?

************

Jesus was born last night, of course. We celebrated his birth. You heard the story. You and I have heard the story told and retold every year for as long as we’ve been around. Even if you are new to the Christian Faith, you know the story. You may wonder where it fits in amongst the trees and tinsel, the bells and whistles, the Ho Ho Hos and the Yippee Ki-yays. 

But somewhere in that mix, you’ve heard the story of the Emperor who called for a census; the couple who had to make the trip from their little hole-in-the-wall home in Galilee to O Little Town of Bethlehem to be counted – which is ironic, because the only time poor people count is when you want to raise taxes – 

You heard the story, and the house here was abuzz with kids and parents; we were finally able to break away from all those Advent hymns written in minor keys (O come, o come, Ema- -nu-el, and ransom captive I- - -sra-el), sort of ponderous and solemn – and we were finally able to sing all those wonderful Christmas hymns, which are even more magical because we actually know the tunes and the words!

For four weeks, the church has been relatively drab and gray; “spruced” up with a little bit of greenery; a wreath here and there; cold days, long, dark nights; a real contrast with the crowded stores with their bright lights, bell-ringers, Frosty the Snowman, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer – I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas music in one store, drowned out by Jingle Bell Rock in the next store, and greeting cards with tinny voices wishing you (goofy voice) Happy Holidays (yup, yup).

Today, the Church is alive with the sound of Music; the walls have been decked with wreaths and ribbons; the tree is green, representing growth and new life; it’s the shape of a cone, pointing heavenward, from whence cometh our help (Psalm 121), say the scriptures.

Christmas morning is a little different, though, isn’t it?

Many of us have watched some of the thousands of Christmas movies trying to help us understand what the day and season are all about. Ebeneezer Scrooge finding the Christmas Spirit with the help of the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. 

There’s George Bailey discovering  the impact his Wonderful Life has made on the community all around him – with a little help from Clarence – an angel who has yet to earn his wings.

There’s also a solid dose of nostalgia for we Boomers with Ralphie in The Christmas Story;  or the defense of the Castle Doctrine in Home Alone; or the girl who is looking for love, and discovers it in the grumpy inn-keeper (who she discovers “truly is the ONE FOR HER” in every Hallmark movie ever.

They miss the point: Christmas isn’t about finding love (Love Actually), or getting a Christmas Bonus like in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.

These movies are all egocentric. They’re all about fixing us, or changing us, or making us better. But John skips over the stories of Christmas we have in Luke and in Matthew, and tells us that Christmas IS about change, but not about us.

It’s not about US; it’s about God. Christmas is about God changing – not us.

************

“In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God …” 

From time immemorial, God has dwelt in the highest heavens. God has come down periodically to check in us. But those have been flashes. The theological word for that is THEOPHANY. A momentary glance at God, or a momentary glimpse of God.

When God met Moses on the Mountain, Moses couldn’t see God. Moses could only hear what God had to say. “In the beginning was the word …” John, writing the Gospel, knows that.

Moses heard the voice of God. Moses saw the hand of God at work, carving out the rules and regulations – the Torah – by which God’s people were to live. But there was something missing. Moses cried out: “I want to see YOU, God!”

So God hid Moses in a deep, dark crevasse, and for just a moment, God tippy-toed past quickly, so Moses caught just the barest glimpse of God’s back side. 

But that was enough. Moses came down off the mountain, and his whole face was illuminated so bright, it scared the dickens out of the children of Israel.

“The light shone in darkness, and the darkness did not understand it.”

Just a flash. That’s all it took. That was enough. 

I had a friend who passed away a few years ago. Larry Sparr and his family were driving across the North Cascades Highway, heading home from some time in Winthrop. They pulled over at a small parking lot where you can hike a little ways to a beautiful overlook. It was getting late, but not too bad. So Larry, his wife Dawn, and their two girls hiked up the trail for a couple hundred yards to the overlook and thoroughly enjoyed this magnificent valley through which Highway 20 cuts. 

They were there for just a few minutes when the sun set sooner than they had expected. It’s not that the sun really set early, but it dipped below the mountains, and suddenly, they were thrust into darkness, just as if a light had been switched off. They’d gone from day to dusk, to night in just a matter of seconds, it seemed.

Larry knew how to get to the car. There was only one path, but he couldn’t see the path. Between the darkness and the trees lining the path, it was just pitch black. They hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight, and this was in the days before cell-phones and their built-in flashlights. But Larry did have his 35-mm (film) camera. He loved his photography. So he turned the camera toward the path – FLASH – he could see where it was. So he and the family held hands, and about every 15-20 feet he would flash down the path, memorize direction, curves, and tree roots or hazards, and they worked their way back to the car.

The flash of the camera illuminated the path; the darkness could not overcome the brightness of that light.

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light,” says the prophet.

But flashes are not enough. For fifteen hundred years, God flashed here and there, and the children of Israel took steps. Baby steps. Big steps. Small steps. Stumbling steps. Sometimes they fell flat on their faces. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they were faithful; oftentimes they weren’t. 

And God says (and I’m paraphrasing the prophets here), “This is insane. I keep doing the same thing over and over and hoping for different results. At some point someone’s going to say ‘That’s the definition of insanity.’” 

So God did something new. Instead of sporadic flashes of insight every now and then, how about providing a light that will never be extinguished? A lamp that will never run out of oil? A candle that will never burn down, or be hidden under a bushel basket? How about if, instead of beaming up and out, I stick around and live, not in heaven above, or behind the curtain in the Holy of Holies, but here? With these people? In these people? With as many people as desire the light I have for them?

“For as many as received him, he made them the children of God – children of the Light.”

And that’s what God did. God found a little girl willing to say yes. God became microscopic. That’s why Mary said, “My soul doth MAGNIFY the Lord.” She had to magnify him; he was microscopic. 

So God became one WITH her, and became one IN her.

In much the same way, God becomes one with us – because we dare to say yes. God becomes one IN us, because we dare to say yes – because God finally figured out the only way to change the human race is to start from the inside, and change us one at a time. 

The reason for the season isn’t a plotline from some Hallmark movie. The reason for the season is to allow God to plant in us exactly what Mary was allowing God to plant in her, and we’re here to remember that.

We’re not to just be like Jesus; we’re to be Jesus. That was God’s bright idea in this dark and chilly world. 

Merry Christmas – or as my ancestors said, God Jul! AMEN.

Collect for Christmas Eve

O God, you make us glad by the yearly festival of the birth of your only Son Jesus Christ: Grant that we, who joyfully receive him as our Redeemer, may with sure confidence behold him when he comes to be our Judge; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.[BCP 212]

Does Christmas catch anyone off-guard? Does it really sneak up on anyone? Today, our Collects shift focus from the promise of a savior, to the deliverance on God’s promise! So much of our focus, as a community, is on the joyfulness of the season, but I wonder just how real that is. Many folks will be spending time in hospital; many will be facing eviction or homelessness; many will be facing the first Christmas without one of thirty thousand people who died through gun violence this year – about half by suicide. Many will be experiencing the holidays following marital break-ups or empty nests.

“O God, you MAKE us glad …” Make us? Well, yes, but let me explain. First of all, the word “glad” doesn’t just mean happy. It comes from a P.I.E. word meaning “to shine.” Our cultural tendency is to, first of all, follow our ego. I don’t intend to minimize loss, death, or tragic circumstances in which one may find themselves. But the Christian faith focuses outwardly. The Commands are to love God thoroughly, and to love one’s neighbor as oneself. So while one’s personal circumstances may be hurting, our prayer brings to mind something else. “God, you make us SHINE by the yearly festival of the birth …” In other words, yes, times may be tough, and yes, you may be experiencing terrible, horrible, debilitating loss(es), but the sight of God’s salvation dropping into our midst is cause for joy and great happiness. Our happiness isn’t based upon our circumstances, but upon God’s very actions, which we remember this day or night.

We know dark days. This season is known for the long dark nights, and days which are short and cold. People in our families and in our communities suffer from the seasonal blues, grave depression, and far too much sugar, alcohol, or other mind-numbing substances. It has been throughout this season of growing darkness that we in the Church have begun to fight that darkness, symbolically at the very least. Candle by candle, we’ve grown the light. One candle, two candles, three, and four. It’s not much in a world of darkness, but it’s something.

Have you slipped into a cold dark church at night? We have our electric lights now, of course. But as a parish priest, often first on site for our various liturgies, I stand in awe of the power of darkness. Standing in a dark church, listening to the floorboards creak and groan as they adjust to changes in temperature or humidity, I do not flip the lights on. I enjoy the darkness, the quiet, the lack of turmoil. Here there are no cash registers beeping and buzzing. No Santas ringing bells while standing by their collection drums. No so-called Christmas music blaring incessantly on tinny overhead speakers. No, just the sounds of the church breathing. Off in the distance, behind the altar, a faint light – red – flickers. It is the Sanctuary Lamp, and signals the Real Presence of Christ in the Reserved Sacrament behind the Altar (either in a Tabernacle or an Aumbry). 

The Sanctuary Lamp does not provide enough illumination to really do much of anything except … it points the way. I know the geographical layout of the church. I don’t need a map. I don’t need a flashlight. I know I need only walk forward to the center aisle (avoiding a baptismal font I know stands there at the first crossing). I turn ninety degrees and walk the center aisle twenty paces, then up onto the chancel steps, then three more steps to the Sanctuary rail – and up one step toward the Altar. Now I am in the Holy of Holies, and the Sanctuary Lamp is much closer, much brighter.

Yes, I could have flipped on the lights, but I enjoy the darkness. It isn’t cold. It isn’t scary. It isn’t foreboding. I have no desire or intention of doing anything “bad” in the darkness. I am allowing God to embrace me in the darkness, and after that hug, I find I am ready to turn on the lights. When the church is ablaze with modern day lighting, I find my breath taken away by the sight of poinsettias and flowers and candles and the miracle that I made my way through the church without running into any of them (because I was so caught up in the reverie of the magic of Christmas Eve, I’d forgotten the Altar Guild had set things up for the wonderful Christmas Eve service that will soon be starting – oops). 

As a youngster, my view of God was much different than it is now. As a child, when I heard tell of God as “judge,” I thought of the Sistine Chapel God – the scowling God, the angry God, the ready to toss your hide into the fires God. Today, knowing Jesus is my Redeemer, my view of God as judge has changed. He’s still old; I can’t get that image out of my head. But scowling? Not on your life. Jesus is our Redeemer. That means when we get to heaven and get to the gate, Jesus is standing there and shouts out to Saint Peter, “Hey, that’s Keith; I’ve got a coupon for him!” Jesus redeems my coupon, and that’s how I get in. It isn’t based on good works or deeds, or having the right theology or right answers. Those don’t hurt, obviously, but you and I get in because Jesus is holding the coupons, and God is so glad to see us. God is the Judge who scores us a ten, no matter what.

Christmas, it turns out, isn’t about how happy we are to see a baby lying in a manger; it’s about how happy God is to see us! That makes us glad. Tonight, we light the Christ Candle!

The Fourth Sunday of Advent

Purify our conscience, Almighty God, by your daily visitation, that your Son Jesus Christ, at his coming, may find in us a mansion prepared for himself; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. [BCP p. 212]

I am in my seventies, as I write this. Much of my life is lived on autopilot. I would love to think (or say) that my life is dedicated to the honor and glory of God 24/7, but I’d be lying. I am a creature of habit. I get up at the same time every morning (give or take a minute or so); I take care of my morning ablutions, grab my coffee, and fire up the computer to see what horrors have been inflicted on the planet while I was asleep. If the coffee hasn’t quite kicked in adequately, I hold off on the news of the world and simply check my family and friend reports and posts on social media. I pay my bills and put the receipts in a great pile next to a filing folder I never get around to using. My desk is cluttered with books I am at various stages of reading, or going to read, or hope to someday read. I’d put them away, but my bookshelves are sagging beneath the already too many other books I’ve either read or haven’t gotten to yet.

I’m not a scatter-brain. I’m not a hoarder. I’m just not disciplined in the ways of orderliness. I can find exactly what I want with minimal fuss. The only time I can’t find things is when I’ve either put them away, or my wife has put them away. She doesn’t do that much anymore. She’s learned better than to do that. She is a neat-freak, and so she has ordered the house in a way that helps her stay calm, cool, and collected. But she leaves my office alone, for which I am most thankful.

However, when I know I’m going to have company, I fly into action and destroy my orderly chaos, for it is far more important to make the place presentable for my guests than it is to be able to find anything for the moment. This Collect for the Fourth Sunday of Advent reminds me of the chaotic life I lead, and impells me to put aside my usual slovenly demeanor, so that I can receive my guest “daily.” 

To “purify” is more than to clear up our conscience, as if we’ve been doing bad things. It is more like that house-cleaning one does, clearing away cobwebs, wiping up spills, washing, drying, and putting away dishes, and setting things right so one’s guest may feel at home. No one enters a house asking what junk we have or what we’ve done with it. They come in to be with us. They enter to spend time talking about things that matter to them and, if they are polite (at the least) talking about things that matter to us.

This fourth Sunday of Advent we find ourselves shifting focus from the Almighty God, Law-giver, and Sin-buster. We begin to turn our eyes upon Jesus, the One who came into the world to “save sinners.” We haven’t gotten to Bethlehem, yet, but we know it is just around the corner, and we’re called to remember how there was no room in the inn (or guest-quarters) in which for Jesus to be born. How about you? How about me? Have we made room? Are we making room?

This Collect also brings to mind one of Jesus’ promises: that he goes to his Father to prepare a place for us, a mansion – for US! Will we do likewise? We light the fourth candle and look around. Are you ready? Are we?

A tree-mendous dilemma

 

“Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. In all circumstances give thanks ...” First Thessalonians

First of all, let me confess: My wife and I have not had a real, live Christmas tree in over thirty years. Our last “live tree” (which is a weird way to describe something that was hacked to death on some tree farm) was a “fresh” tree we bought on a lot near the house for Christmas 1990. We set it up in the living room, and as the tree thawed out, it began to drop needles. By morning, most needles had fallen off the tree, and it made the anorexic Charlie Brown Christmas tree (before decorating) look magnificent by comparison.

I’ll confess, too, that the “gentle Jesus, meek and mild” character I usually display in life can disappear in a flash when I am upset. That morning I saw the floor, now blackened by an infestation of fallen needles, and the likewise now naked tree standing in our living room, and I lost my cool (as had the sad little defrosted tree before me).

I should note that we were of a tradition that “the tree goes up the weekend before Christmas,” (which was a Tuesday in 1990). We were at the tail end of Advent (Christmas begins after sundown on December 24), and I was at my wit’s end. Many people enjoy the smell of spruce in the house, the tacky feel of tree-sap on their hands, and the joy of stringing lights on their yuletide evergreens. I am NOT one of those people.

Since the tree looked like a catastrophic fire hazard more than the festive holiday centerpiece it was intended to be, I ripped it up, tossed it to the curb, and we made a quick trip to the nearby mall where we bought the last artificial Christmas tree in the county. It was a display model, but I didn’t care. They didn’t even have a box for it, so the clerks dismantled the tree, tossing the pieces into black garbage sacks that we hauled out to the car.

We set it up, threw on the lights and ornaments, and have had artificial trees ever since; I’ve never looked back. No regrets. I do feel like it’s cheating, somehow, but be that as it may, I’ll live. I’ve got the tiniest tinge of guilt, of course, about putting something fake up for the holiday, but I trussed up that sense of sinfulness with some tinsel and stuck it into a far-away crawl-space in the undercroft of my soul. It’s both out of sight and out of mind.

Over the years we have had a variety of artificial trees. Each model has been an improvement over the last. The last few trees we’ve had go together in a matter of minutes, and are sized to fit the spaces we’ve had for them as we’ve moved. There are just two of us now and the kids and grandkids live far away, so we’ve tried to cut back a bit on our decorating. I’ve never been one to go all Clark Griswold, anyway. We no longer wait until the weekend before Christmas to put up the tree. Like the rest of the world, the outdoor lights go up on the least rainy day just before Thanksgiving, (we simply wait to plug them in for when the holiday season arrives) and the  tree goes up the weekend after Turkeyday.

The other morning I was sitting by our current tree and enjoying it when suddenly a section of lights went all supernova, shining about twice as bright as normal. As I pondered what that meant (was I about to be visited by an angel?), the lights went dark. Here we were, a week before Christmas, and a section of fake stars on our fake tree had gone out. What was I to do?

Rejoice in the Lord always. Again, I say, rejoice! Life’s too short to grieve or grump. Even fake trees die. Will we undecorate and replace it, or will we enjoy that which is imperfect, awaiting that which is perfect to arrive? 

Here in this, our valley, and in all circumstances, I will simply give thanks, do what I must, and wish you all a very (genuine, heart-felt) Merry Christmas!

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

The Third Sunday of Advent

Stir up your power, O Lord, and with great might come among us; and, because we are sorely hindered by our sins, let your bountiful grace and mercy speedily help and deliver us; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit, be honor and glory, now and for ever. Amen. [BCP p. 212]

Sins. Last week and this we are reminded of our sins. What a distasteful little word. Many preachers have abandoned it, preferring to speak of shortcomings, weaknesses, foibles, errors, or other such nonsense. I can’t blame them. I often do the same. I prefer God as Therapist – One who seeks to fix my stinkin’ thinkin’. No one wants to come to church and be told they are a miserable little lot of good-for-nothing worms.

We do love to sanitize life, though, don’t we. Rather than admit that my first goal is now and ever has been to meet my own filthy lusts and have all things “my way” (with a nod to Frank Sinatra), I’d rather talk about my shortcomings. It makes it sound like I’m at least trying. I like talking about errors or mistakes, for we all make them, don’t we? There’s nothing wrong with that; we’re only human. For most of this stuff, it’s a matter of No harm; no foul.

Euphemisms have their place, certainly. The Church has done such a fine job of making people feel guilty for being human that any talk of sin falls on deaf ears, because we simply don’t want to hear it. Puritanism arose partly out of the idea that anything and everything we do has sin at its root, so we try to root out everything we think or do lest it rip us away from God’s very presence. The greatest fear of the puritan heart is that somewhere, somehow, someone may be having a good time – those wicked sinners! 

So it’s important that we find other words to help convey the truth that, yes, we sometimes say, think, or do bad things. The standard word for that is sin, but sometimes those things are better described as slips, faults, or character defects. The point is, we have them, and this Collect invites us to acknowledge that, and to realize we are often blind to the harm such does to ourselves and to others, and perhaps to God as well.

We think God is omnipotent (all powerful), and yet it seems to me that God seeing us enslaved by sin is terrified, for God has seen what sin has done to people in all times and places: sloth, lust, anger, pride, envy, gluttony, and greed. I prefer to call those vices sin (with a lower case S), and the state of being that draws us toward those sins as Sin (upper case, Sin personified). Sin blinds us to the harm those vices do, and I think it scares the perdition out of God. We are hindered, not just by being entangled in sin, but because in our blindness we don’t know where we’re going, or what we’re doing. 

So we pray on this third Sunday of Advent for God to jump up the way a parent jumps up when they see their toddler wander toward the street. Parents don’t jump up to chastise their child; they jump up to save their child! We’re begging God to help us as we stumble about like drunken sailors on a short pier, or children who’ve lost their ball, unbeknownst to them, in the middle of a mine field in an active war zone. We light the third candle; God, jump up (stir up your power) and help us, we pray! We praise you for your grace!

God always stirs up something good

The Second Sunday of Advent

Merciful God, who sent your messengers the prophets to preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation: Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. [BCP p. 211]

Mercy. The image of a merciful God is supposed to conjure up feelings of warmth and grace, but for some reason, it has the opposite effect on me. The idea of God having mercy implies I’ve done something I shouldn’t have, or left undone something I should have done. To think of God as being merciful irritates me. Isn’t that weird?

I’m reminded of the Prayer of Humble Access that is seldom said in church these days. It was a regular part of the 1928 prayer book liturgy I grew up with, but now it’s only found in the Rite I Eucharistic service, and only now as an option (that most priests opt out of):

We do not presume to come to this thy Table, O merciful Lord, trusting in our own righteousness, but in thy manifold and great mercies. We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy Table. But thou art the same Lord whose property is always to have mercy. Grant us therefore, gracious Lord, so to eat the flesh of thy dear Son Jesus Christ, and to drink his blood, that we may evermore dwell in him, and he in us. Amen.

We do not presume … we are not worthy … but since we’re here (which is how I interpret the phrase: but thou art the same Lord whose property is always to have mercy … The word "but" wipes away everything that comes before it. It negates everything up to that point). I love this prayer, but confess it sometimes strikes me as being a bit thick with false humility. Do we “really” not presume? Do we “really” think we’re not worthy? Do we “really” compare our lives with God’s own holiness and come to the table, trembling with a sense of inadequacy? Perhaps some do, but I confess I don’t, not as much, anyway. I once did, but coming to Holy Communion has become so commonplace for me that I don’t think about it. I DO presume to come, unthinkingly. I DO come with a sense of overblown worthiness.

So today’s Collect invites us to pause a moment and consider that we really do come before a God who is truly merciful, not because we deserve mercy, but because God chooses to love us despite ourselves.

I had trouble telling the truth as a child. I was always afraid I would get into trouble, so I would lie, even when asked if I did something for which there was no cause for alarm. It was a habit. “Kids lie; they always lie,” says a character in the movie The Client. My mother knew when I was lying. The fact is, I was never good at it and, over the decades, have become much more honest. I discovered that it was far easier to tell the truth. If I did something for which I needed to make amends, I’d make amends and make efforts not to repeat that bad behavior. Guilt became a thing of the past, for the most part. My mother constantly had mercy on me. She never banished me from the family table. She never sought to prove me wrong or a liar. It was more important for her to be someone I could depend on (as my bio-mother had abandoned the family), and that grace inspired me to amend my life, even though I didn’t know that’s what I was doing.

Prophets preach repentance (change of heart and mind). They tell us to prepare for our salvation. The point isn’t that we can or will do things that will bring us salvation, that will pull us from the fires of hell. No, the point is we are being called to dinner. Our bodies and souls will be nourished by One who knows how to prepare and deliver balanced meals, that we may have strength to carry out the work God has for us. God does not abandon us because we lie, cheat, steal, or harm others (although God COULD). No, it is God’s nature to bring us to the table to share stories of our day’s challenges, our day’s victories, or the things we need yet to work on.

Knowing that God’s not going to whomp us over the head, we come to the table, rejoicing. For the meal is set before us, and we get to hear from one another what great things God has done. A second candle is lit for Advent. We have a little more light and surprisingly discover that God’s mercy is, indeed, a real delight!

Seeing things differently is a superpower

“If there’s anything that I would like to pass on to the younger generation: it’s the idea that seeing things differently is powerful …” Kyle Creek, aka The Captain

I attended a gathering for local writers a couple of weeks back. It was an opportunity for local authors to meet one another. I introduced myself by name and vocation to our coordinator, when a writer sitting across from me looked up from her computer screen and declared, “I’m an atheist.”

I hadn’t planned on distributing leaflets or trying to convert anyone, so I thought her greeting was a bit uncalled for. I don’t think fast on my feet and have learned not to let all the thoughts and responses that ricochet off the boulders that occupy the space between my ears come out of my mouth, so I smiled and simply said, “Good to know,” and sat down.

I presume her greeting was intended to avoid interacting with this stranger; I understand. Many writers are introverts and socially awkward. I count myself among them. I need time to size up a room and the people in it before opening my mouth, time to collect my thoughts, organize them, and edit them for both clarity and positivity. You would not believe just how rude and sarcastic my brain can be, so I’ve found it best to keep it caged and muzzled!

Holidays are hard enough without straining to inflict pain or misery on one another. The days are short and cold, so I find it necessary for my own mental health to be long on patience and warmth in the presence of others. Even when I don’t feel like it (and I often don’t “feel” like it), I think it is important to acknowledge where we’re at, at any given moment, but simultaneously strive to overcome the instinct to lash out, and exude as much forbearance as is required for any given situation.

I spoke with a woman the other day who exemplified what I’m talking about. She needed to return an item at a big box store and to pick up a small lightbulb. It was Black Friday, so she girded up her loins, expecting to do battle. When she got to the store, though, it was crowded, but people appeared to be ... happy? Happy! 

A father and his young daughter were standing in line having a delightful conversation. The cashier was cheerful and helpful. People were gathered around the Black Friday Specials bins, but without jostling one another for position or advantage, or fighting over limited supply items. She was able to make her return without a hassle. En route to find her bulb she came across a store employee walking past her in a silly, orange costume. “Are you a pumpkin?” she asked. 

The woman laughed and said, “No, I’m a turkey.” She turned and showed her tail feathers and continued on her way. 

My friend then found the light bulb aisle with its dizzying array of every bulb imaginable, and secured one of the folks from the paint division who helped her find the correct bulb, with the correct base – service with a smile.

“The store actually looked and felt festive,” she said, “and took me so by surprise. It put ME in a festive mood, too!”

If I have any advice here at this early stage of our holiday season, it would be to recognize that joy and cheer are superpowers that lie within the heart of most of us. This is not to dismiss grief, sadness, the deep gloom of depression, or high anxiety that afflicts so many. This isn’t a call to put on a brave face and deny what’s going on in heart and soul. 

We don’t know the burdens others carry, the wounds others have endured, the struggles others have faced, so if we can restrain ourselves even just a little bit, we may be of some little service to our friends and neighbors, our families and even strangers. Exercising just a little more grace in word and deed could well be the superpower our world needs right now.

Be kind and patient this season; it’s your superpower, and doesn’t even require a cape, costume, or turkey-tail-feathers. That’s good to know here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

First Sunday of Advent

Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. [BCP p. 211]

Advent is as good a place to start as any. Here in the northern hemisphere, our days have grown shorter and colder. The weather is shifting from the blustery chills of autumn to the stormy wetness of winter. The snows haven’t started falling yet, for the most part, but they’re coming. Growing up in Seattle, we didn’t normally worry about snow until January or February, what with the warmer waters of the Pacific keeping us moderately warm, albeit wet with constantly gray skies, fog, drizzle, and a variety of other forms of moisture that knew how to find its way through clothing, skin, muscle – to the marrow of our very bones.

Darkness always creeps in slowly – just like sin. It’s normally late in October, like around Halloween that I first notice the darkness outdoors. I like a well-lit house, and when I look outside and see the dark, I have an instinctive need to drop the shades and draw the curtains closed. I don’t want the world outside to know what I’m doing inside. To be honest, most of what I do would doubtlessly bore my neighbors to tears, but I don’t even want them to know that about me. Some people are open books and don’t worry about what others think, say, or do about them. Not me. I’m an old, retired parish priest who has happily traded in the fishbowl in which clergy often live for a castle made of big, hard, dark stones into which a few slits have been cut, but only for defensive purposes. I don’t like being that way, but, frankly, that’s how God has put me together, so I make do as best I can with the gifts and curses the good Lord has lay at my feet or in my heart.

“Almighty God, give us grace to cast away darkness …” We enter the Season of Advent with a prayer that unites us in two things. One, that we are in darkness, and two, we are in need of light. Notice, however, that casting off darkness isn’t something we can do willingly or easily. In fact, the prayer implies we can only begin to cast it off with a dollop of God’s grace. We begin our journey into the new year acknowledging that we need help, and, boy, isn’t that the truth?

As I have gotten older, I have found a need for more and better lighting when I am working on projects around the house. Things I could once see clearly and easily have become dim. I often find I need to take off my glasses for working close up to something, and I need a bright flashlight to help me see what I’m looking for in drawers or cabinets. Our Collect for the First Sunday of Advent lets us know right off the bat that our eyes are not as sharp as we would like them to be, so we look to the source of all light for the light we need. That’s the first step.

The second step is acknowledging, too, that we are mortal. That may seem pretty obvious to most people, but the fact is, I don’t spend much time pondering my mortality (let alone my morality which, personally, I think is fairly decent, as long as we use a sliding scale). This prayer reminds us that, not only are we mortal, but God decided to jump in and join us in our mortality! As one wag put it, God didn’t just come to us “in great humility,” but in great humiliation – born a baby who would be completely dependent on the limited abilities of a complete novice (the Virgin Mary) to bring him into this world and raise him up to be for us what we can never be on our own – a Deliverer like Moses, a prophet like Elijah, and MORE. 

If this is true, what are we hoping for? What is our aspiration? Our desire of God?

“That in the last day … we may rise to the life immortal …” To spend eternity with God! Our prayer is to become centered on the One in whom we live and move and have our being. We addressed our prayer to “Almighty God,” which seems a bit off-putting, as we are anything but holy, anything but clean, anything but righteous or faithful, and yet we ask the One to whom we pray to pull us up and to lift us out of our darkness, and lostness, and weakness, and pull us in toward God’s very own bosom, in Christ’s “glorious majesty,” so that, in the words of St. Augustine of Hippo, we may find rest for our restless hearts in God.

That’s a nice way to start the year off, not focused on the worminess of our sordid lives (or wherever we find ourselves on Perdition’s slippery path), but on the glory and majesty of God who is not content for us to be tossed into fiery pits, but desires, instead, for us to come up higher and sit with the heavenly hosts and regale one another with tales of all that God has done.

Candle one is lit; the year begins with fire.