When God calls . . . others help us discern 1 Samuel 3: 1 - 11; 19 - 4: 1a

            Twenty years ago I participated in Mission Presbytery’s Lay Leadership Institute.  Along with 11 other non-clergy members of Presbyterian churches in central Texas, I studied, discussed, and reflected on reformed theology, Presbyterian polity, and the church’s mission.  (I’ll bet that sounds familiar to you deacons and elders who attended our leadership retreat in November, for that is what we studied, discussed, and reflected on.)  Meeting Friday afternoons through Sunday mornings on 5 weekends at 5 different venues in our presbytery, we participants questioned, absorbed, pondered, and planned in community.  About 2 months lapsed between each of our meetings, and during that time we planned and developed and began to implement individual projects that would benefit our particular churches.

            Most of the other participants were retired, with adult children and grandchildren.  I was the youngest.  While I brought energy, enthusiasm and bit of restlessness to the group, others brought wisdom, patience, and a long-term perspective for their churches and the church universal.

            Our October meeting was held at the presbytery’s beach retreat. I remember sitting on the balcony of my room that Friday evening, wrapped in a blanket because the breeze off the gulf was cold.  I rested—listening to the waves rolling in, gazing at the star-lit water, basking in the opportunity to just sit and be.  As mother of 2 pre-schoolers, wife, public school teacher, Sunday School teacher, elder, and children’s ministry chair; I was always busy.  I never took the time to sit and just be.  Perhaps it was this time spent in stillness and quiet which prepared me to listen that weekend. 

            The next evening, after a full day of study, discussion, and planning, several of us took a long walk on the beach.  After awhile Andy and Paul and I found ourselves walking together—separate from the rest of the group.  We talked about our lives outside of these Lay Leadership weekends—our families, our jobs, our hobbies.  As I shared my experiences teaching math, Paul said to me, “Mari Lyn, you do know that teaching is not just your job.  It’s your vocation.  It’s what God has called you to do right now.” 

            It’s a good thing it was dark because I know the expression on my face clearly disagreed with him.  God had nothing to do with my being a teacher.  I went into teaching because in my senior year in college, I realized I could not stay in school forever. I needed to quit living off the largesse of my parents and start being a responsible member of society.  I enjoyed school—being a student; perhaps I would enjoy school—being a teacher. There was a demand for math teachers, and I enjoyed math—well, until Differential Equations ate my lunch.  By my senior year, I had a lot of college math hours.  I had a job as soon as I earned my teaching certificate.  That’s how I ended up teaching.  Besides, how does teaching teenagers college preparatory math fit in with God’s grand plan?  Teaching was not my vocation! God had not called me to be a teacher—or so I thought.

            Andy agreed with Paul—saying, “Yeah, Mari Lyn, listening to you talk about your students—how you are available to help them outside of the classroom and how you provide multiple opportunities for them to succeed—that shows how important your students’ learning is to you.  It shows how important your students are to you.  I wish my son had teachers who cared that much about his learning.  I wish my son had teachers who cared that much for him.  I wish you were my son’s teacher.” 

            My teaching—in a public school—a God-directed path? a God-called vocation?  I had never considered that—not until that conversation on the beach with Paul and Andy.  Over the next days, weeks, and months, I kept hearing Paul’s words “Mari Lyn, you do know that teaching is not just your job?  It’s your vocation.  It’s what God has called you to do right now.”  Sometimes it takes someone else—someone other than ourselves—to help us recognize God’s direction in our lives.  Sometimes we need someone else to hear God for us.  Sometimes when God calls, we need others to help us discern what God is leading us to do. 

            That’s what happens in our text today.  The youth, Samuel, hears a voice, and is able to recognize it as God’s voice only through the help of Eli.  Of course at first Samuel did not realize it was God speaking to him. After all, “The word of the Lord was rare in those days; visions were not widespread.”  In those days—in ancient Israel, only priests mediated the presence of God with the people, and all priests were Levites, descendents of Moses’ brother, Aaron.  In those days, at Shiloh, the Levite, Eli was the priest who proclaimed God’s word to the people.  Eli’s sons—not Samuel—were heirs to this priestly role.  Samuel was just a boy whose mother Hannah—out of gratitude for his long-hoped for birth, had dedicated him to God and had brought him to Shiloh to serve Eli.  Samuel was a servant of Eli, not a servant of God.  He lived in the tabernacle because his mother took him there, not because God brought him there—or so Samuel thought.  It took someone with whom he had a close relationship—it took Eli—to help him realize God was speaking to him.  Samuel heard a voice.  Eli discerned it was the voice of God.

            And what about Eli?  Here is a man who was already a priest of God, a man who expected his sons and grandsons and great-grandsons to continue mediating God’s presence among the people, but God is calling someone else.  Eli could have been angry that God had chosen another.  He could have refused to identify the voice Samuel was hearing as God’s.  Here is a man whose senses of sight and hearing are losing their edge.  He could have closed his eyes and his ears to God’s presence there —to God’s presence with Samuel.  Here is a man coming to the end of his years.  He could have decided he was too tired to mentor Samuel—for surely he knew that in revealing God’s call upon Samuel’s life, he would be taking on the task of preparing him—preparing Samuel to hear and proclaim God’s word to the people, preparing Samuel to mediate God’s presence among them.   

            In order for God’s plan to unfold in this call story, both Eli and Samuel must respond faithfully.  To hear and obey God’s word, both Eli and Samuel need to trust—to trust each other and to trust God.  To experience God’s presence, both Eli and Samuel need to listen—to listen to one another and to listen for God.  To respond to God’s word, both Eli and Samuel need to act.  God’s plan unfolds within community, and in today’s text, community is the relationship between Eli and Samuel.

            God’s voice can be and is heard by individuals, but it is confirmed within community.  Within community—among one another, connected by the Holy Spirit.  It is within community that God’s voice is heard, God’s plan is understood, God’s call is followed, and God’s will is obeyed. 

            Sometimes it takes someone else—someone other than ourselves to help us recognize God’s direction in our lives. Sometimes we need someone else to hear God for us. After my conversation on the beach with Paul and Andy, I viewed my teaching from a different perspective.  No longer was it the job I had chosen.  Instead it was a God-inspired opportunity to be a blessing in the lives of my students and my colleagues. I began to realize I had a gift for teaching.  My conversation with Paul and Andy on the beach helped me turn the knob to open the door—just a little bit—to the possibility that God had a call, a purpose, a plan—for my life.

            The insight, encouragement, and affirmation of others help us recognize God’s hand in our lives. This week I invite you to take some time from doing—and spend some time being—being in God’s presence—in prayer, in reading or meditating on scripture, in quiet reflection—spend some time just being.  In this time, I invite you to—metaphorically or literally—say, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”  I invite you then to listen for God’s word to you.  Reflect on how and to whom you might be an Eli—revealing God’s presence or God’s plan in someone else’s life or in the life and ministry of this congregation.  I invite you also to envision how you might be a Samuel—one who listens to the insight of another, one to whom God speaks, one who responds to God’s direction for your life.  This week, I invite you to listen—so that God may reveal God’s self to you and through you—through each one of you—God may reveal God’s plan for this congregation. 

Let us pray.  Loving and guiding God, may we not only hear your word, but also discern your will, and respond with faith and courage.  Amen.

“When God Calls . . . the Holy Spirit follows up.” Mark 1: 4 – 11

            I’ve been asked—What’s the best thing about being your pastor?  The answer:  getting to visit with you.  Whether it’s in your home, at your place of work, here at the church, at a local business, or even at the hospital, I enjoy visiting with you.  While sipping a cup of coffee, sorting through items at the Thrift Shop—let me restate that—watching you sort through items at the Thrift Shop— checking out a book, taking a break, or watching our children at play or practice, I enjoy visiting with you.  You see, I love listening to your stories—how you met your spouse, what brought you to Paola, why you chose your vocation.  I appreciate your sharing memories of special people in your lives, funny anecdotes of your family, and how this community has changed over the years.  I love listening to your stories. 

            I have always been fascinated by stories, and it’s the stories in the Bible that grab my attention—more than the theological reflections, more than the poetry, and more than the prophetic proclamations.  It’s the stories in the Bible that I enjoy the most. 

            In planning for worship between now and the beginning of Lent—as I was reading the lectionary scriptures, I noticed that each Sunday included a text related to a “call” story—a narrative (sometimes brief, sometimes comprehensive)—of how someone in the Bible heard God’s call for his or her life.  There are many “call” stories in the Bible—from God speaking to Moses through a burning bush to the angel Gabriel telling Mary she will bear God’s son to the blinding light striking Paul down on the road to Damascus.  The Bible is full of “call” stories.  So, I invite you—during these next few Sundays to join me in reflecting on “When God calls .  . .”

            Today’s text contains Jesus’ call story.  This is how the evangelist Mark perceived God’s calling Jesus into his life’s ministry.  Along with many folks from the Judean countryside, Jesus responds to John the Baptist’s life-changing invitation. 

In my mind’s eye, I see Jesus standing in the Jordan River, hands clasped at his heart.  John is standing beside him—facing him, one hand holding Jesus’ clasped hands and the other at the top of Jesus’ back—supporting his neck.  In my mind’s ear, I hear John saying “I baptize you with water—symbolizing the refreshing cleanliness of a new life—a life turned towards God.  The one whose way I prepare, the one who comes after me, the one is more powerful than I, he will baptize, not with water, but with the Holy Spirit.”  Then I see Jesus leaning back into John’s strong arm.  As John lowers him into the Jordan River,

Jesus is completely covered by the water.  Then John begins to raise him back up.  As he comes up out of the river, water drenching him—running into his eyes—Jesus sees the sky split open and the Holy Spirit coming down—like a bird in flight—from that fissure.  Even as the water is dripping from his ears, he hears God’s voice, “You are my Son, whom I dearly love.  I am very pleased with you.”  Now standing, wiping the water from his face and his ears, Jesus looks up and around.  No one else seems to have seen the Spirit or heard the voice.  He makes his way out of the river as John waits for the next person to come down and be baptized.

            At the riverbank, Jesus pauses, he reflects—rewinding and replaying in his mind the tape of what just happened:  God speaking to him . . . the Holy Spirit landing on him.  This is Jesus’ call story.  At his baptism, God calls him beloved Son and fills him with God’s presence and power.  Here, in Jesus’ call story, we experience the Trinity—God the Parent—speaking, God the Holy Spirit—empowering, and God the Son—receiving and responding.   We experience the Trinity—poised on the brink of the ministry to which Jesus is called.

            When God calls, the Holy Spirit is right there—following up—surrounding you with God’s presence, offering you signs of encouragement, and giving you the gifts—the talents, the skills, the character traits—you need to do that which God calls you to do.  

            You?  Yes you—for each one of us is called by God.  In the waters of our baptism, God claims us as God’s very own, saying, “You are my dearly loved child.”  Welcomed into God’s family, we are called into discipleship.  We become heirs with Christ of all that is God’s, so God calls us into the “family business”—the family business of sharing the good news.  When God calls us into God’s family, the Holy Spirit follows up—encircling us with God’s presence; encouraging us in our daily lives to follow Christ’s example of love and service; and endowing us with the gifts we need to do so—giving us faith and hope and love. 

            In the family of faith—that is, the church—and in this particular congregation, God calls some to leadership—leadership in a ministry of compassion (deacon) or leadership in nurturing the faith of this congregation (elder).  Today, we ordain and install those people whom God has called to leadership here in the next three years—deacons and elders.  Because God has called them, we know that the Holy Spirit is right here, following up—assuring them of God’s presence, encouraging them through our response to their leadership, and equipping them to guide this congregation in the ministry God has planned for us now and in the future.

            The ministry God has planned for us—yes, us—God calls us—collectively as well as individually—into ministry—the ministry of this church.  We do not ordain and install deacons and elders to do the work of this church.  We ordain and install deacons and elders with whom we will do the work of this church.  We ordain and install elders and deacons who will prayerfully lead us and with whom we will work—we will minister—together.  Together.     

            Over the next few Sundays, as we read and reflect on various biblical call stories, may we open ourselves to the certainty that God calls each one of us. May we open our ears to hear God’s message to us individually as well as to us as a group. May we hear God saying to us, “You are my beloved son.  You are my beloved daughter.  You are my beloved children.  I am well-pleased with you.  Join me.”  May we open our eyes to see the Holy Spirit poised to guide us along the path God is laying out for us.  May we flex our hands and our feet and stretch our arms and our legs to ready our bodies to respond—to physically respond—to God’s call.  May we feel the touch of the Holy Spirit—assuring us of God’s presence, inviting us to share God’s love, encouraging us and equipping us to answer this, God’s call on our lives. Amen.  

And the Word Became Flesh and Blood and Moved into the Neighborhood

John 1: 1 - 14

     Recently, we moved into the neighborhood.  When we arrived in Paola on August 12, we were greeted with a welcome banner, two plants—a hibiscus and a desert rose, and a basket of fruit and nuts.   Driving up and seeing that welcome banner brought tears to my eyes.  Like Sally Field accepting her Oscar, I thought “They like me . . . they really like me.”  Welcome. The blooming hibiscus plant brought beauty to our home, a beauty I had left behind in Austin for there was no room in our cars for my hibiscus plants.  Beauty.  The desert rose reminded me of Kevin’s West Texas grandparents, and thus began to connect our life here with our life and family back in Texas. Connections.  And the basket of fruit and nuts—well, it was our sustenance the first couple of days—until our microwave and pots and pans arrived with the moving van. Sustenance.

We were also welcomed with a freshly manicured yard—not because our landlords had taken care of it, but because unbeknownst to us, one of the members of this congregation had mowed it before we arrived—He had performed a service for us.  Service.  We moved into the neighborhood, and we felt oh so very welcome here. 

       Welcome, reassuring, familiar—they often go hand in hand. Our scripture today is familiar.  The gospel reading for Christmas Day in each of the lectionary years, it is also one of the birth scriptures we regularly read at our Christmas vespers.  And we heard it last night as the Christ candle was lit.  It is familiar, reassuring, poetic even.  1 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. 2 He was in the beginning with God. 3 All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.  The gospel writer John claims not only is Jesus divine, but also this divine connection with God extends all the way back to the beginning of all creation.  Jesus is the Word of God—the Word through which God spoke creation into being.  Jesus is fully divine.  Jesus is God. 

       But that is not all that John claims, for we also read . . .   14 And the Word became flesh and lived among us.  Jesus, fully divine is also Jesus, fully human. Isaiah’s claim of Emmanuel—“God with us” takes on a new dimension.  It’s not God is with us in a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night—as God was with the Hebrews fleeing from slavery in Egypt.  It’s not that God has come out of or down from God’s glory to hover around or near us.  No, God has become one of us.  In Jesus, God has entered into humanity.

        Of all the translations I read for today’s text, I like Eugene Peterson’s The Message best.  14 The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood.    

         Moved into the neighborhood—We lived in our home in Round Rock for 20 years.  The first couple of years we were there, the house next door fell into some disrepair through occupants that were in transition. I remember our sense of hopeful anticipation when we learned someone had bought the house and as we watched this new couple begin working on it.  There was new energy around the house after they moved in and their middle school son and his friends began playing basketball on the front driveway.  Our children were considerably younger than their son, so we didn’t connect through school or play.  Each of the couple had jobs with long hours, as did we.  Both of them commuted about an hour to work, as did Kevin. It was hard to find time when all of us were home to meet and visit each other.  So, it was a gradual process by which we got to know one another.  Working together—putting up a new, shared fence—began to open the door to each others’ lives. 

        I remember, over the years, our conversations—conversations which would begin at the neighborhood mailboxes and continue as we walked back to our homes and stood under the oak trees in our front yard with their dogs Shawnee and Cherokee running around us—conversations which would start with our admiring their Christmas light display as they put it up each Thanksgiving weekend.  In later years—Fred and Janet began to share their faith journeys, their joys with and later their disappointments in the faith community in which they worshiped.  They were very interested in Kevin’s call to seminary and his work as a chaplain.  The summer before we moved, Janet—newly retired from her job and quite skilled at home remodeling—helped me completely redo the girls’ bathroom.  Everyday for 2 weeks, she came over to our house to tear down drywall, to measure and mount greenboard, to cut and lay tile, and to texture and paint walls.  We got to know each other well as we labored together. I remember their good-byes and their prayers for us when we moved to seminary campus.  Ours had been a gradually growing, long-term neighbor relationship. 

        The Word became flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood.  In Jesus, God indeed became flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood—earth—for a gradual, long-term, life-long relationship.  Jesus lived among us—waking and sleeping, eating and drinking, healing and teaching, preaching and praying, laughing and crying—sharing life with his family and with his disciples.  That particular sharing of day-to-day life ended with his death and yet it did not end. For after his resurrection, Jesus appeared to his disciples—promising them a gift—the presence and power of the Holy Spirit.

        It is through the power of the Holy Spirit, that we continue to share our lives with Christ. It is through the power of the Holy Spirit that this gradually growing relationship with Jesus can last our whole life long. It is through the presence of the Holy Spirit, that we know we are never alone.

        During Advent we have been eagerly anticipating the coming of Christ—Christ the baby and Christ the King.  Today we celebrate the coming of Christ the baby.  We celebrate God becoming one of us and moving into the neighborhood.  We celebrate that God lived among us as flesh and blood at one point in history, and that God continues to come to us, in our day-to-day lives.  Today we celebrate the ongoing relationship we have with Jesus our neighbor.  Just as Kevin and my relationship with Fred and Janet developed through conversations and shared work, our relationship with Christ grows through conversations—prayer and study—and through shared work—mission and worship.  This relationship with Christ our neighbor, nurtures and renews us.  And while we revel in how wonderful it is to have Jesus as our neighbor, we also consider how we can welcome Jesus—in each person we meet.  How can we welcome others, and therefore Jesus, into our neighborhood—that is our community, our church, our friendships, and our lives?  In what ways will we offer Jesus—in each person that we meet—beauty, connection, sustenance, and service?  How will we be both recipients and givers of the love of Jesus, our neighbor; Jesus, our savior?  How will we welcome the Word who as flesh and blood moves into our neighborhood?

Luke 1: 26 – 38

            Have you ever felt small or unimportant? On the job, at school, within an organization you belong to, or even in your family, have you ever felt that your opinion did not matter, your contribution was not valued, or  your presence was not even noticed? Have you ever felt insignificant, as if you could not possibly make a difference?

            In today’s reading, we meet someone who, by all rights, should have felt unimportant and powerless, insignificant and small.  As a female, Mary belonged to her father until she married when she would belong to her husband. She was young in a society that valued age.  Her family held no lands, owned no wealth, and wielded no power.  She lived in a small town, in Galilee—a backward frontier state, rather than in Jerusalem, the center of Jewish culture.  She was Jewish when the Romans ruled the known world. 

By all that mattered, Mary was unimportant, powerless to make any kind of difference in any sphere of her world.

            And yet, it is she the angel Gabriel visits.  It is she, among all other people, who has found favor with God.  It is in her response to Gabriel’s greeting that we begin to see why Mary is extraordinary.  For she is perplexed, greatly troubled by the angel’s greeting.  Mary remembers her Jewish history well enough to know that visits from divine messengers generally preface challenges.  She understands there is more to this greeting than “Hello, Mary.  Did you know that God finds favor with you?”

            The news that she will deliver a son, is neither surprising nor unwelcome.  After all, bearing children is expected in the marriage contract her parents have entered into with Joseph.  And sons were more welcome than daughters in this time and culture.  What is surprising is what she is to name her son.  Instead of Bar Joseph—son of Joseph, she is to name him Jesus—Yeshua, in Hebrew, which means “God saves.”  Then there’s this talk about of her son on David’s throne.  Revitalizing a Jewish kingdom means wrestling out of the Roman emperor’s iron grip.  I imagine it’s the name and the throne that put this wise Mary on her guard.  Is this angel suggesting her son will be born outside of her betrothal?  Is this angel proposing sedition? 

            So, Mary asks, “How?  How can this happen when I am a virgin?”  But behind this question is “How?  How can God consider me favored but deliberately put me in danger?”  For if Mary does become pregnant with a child who is not his, Joseph can have her stoned to death.  And renewing David’s monarchy, revolting against the Romans, is a capital offense.  What did I say earlier?  Divine messengers tend to preface challenges.

            So how does Gabriel propose to ease Mary’s concerns?  He tells her, “God will take care of you. Through the power of the Holy Spirit, your son will reign over a kingdom that will have no end—not enclosed by geographical or physical features, not bounded by time, not subject to any person or power other than God.  He tells her, “Through the power of the Holy Spirit, you, Mary, will bear God into the world.”   And Gabriel concludes,  “For with God, nothing will be impossible.”

             This week I found many different images for Mary’s annunciation.  I want to share 3 with you that illumine her response. 

http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/rossetti/annunciation.jpg  (1849 – 1850 painting by Dante Rosetti)

Here, is a Mary backed into a corner, a fatalistic Mary, a Mary who feels she has no choice.  I can almost hear her response to Gabriel.  “Okay, let it be with me just as you have said.”  I don’t like this perspective of Mary.  For in it, she is just a pawn in God’s chess game.

http://hoocher.com/Lorenzo_Lotto/Annunciation_ca_1527.jpg  (Lorena Lotto,  1534 – 1535)

This Mary is not backed into a corner.  She is not meekly accepting an unwanted fate. This Mary appears to be running away from the angel.  This Mary recognizes she has a choice.  And her response seems to be “No Way!  I am not going to do this!”  It’s a valid response, a response with which many of us are well-acquainted.  And it may well have been her initial response to Gabriel’s message.

http://stmaryskerrisdale.ca/centennial/files/Annunciation-full.jpg

Here, is a Mary who chooses to work with God, a Mary who will be empowered by the Holy Spirit. Here, Mary has heard Gabriel’s message, has thoughtfully considered it and all its implications, and now eagerly embraces God’s invitation to bear God’s son and in so doing to help bring about God’s purpose for humanity.

            This painting reminds me why Luke tells the annunciation story—to emphasize the following.

1.  God acts in human history.  Our relationship with God is not other-worldly.

Our relationship with God involves all that is us—seeing, hearing, tasting, touching, smelling, feeling, knowing, intuiting.  God is with us in the physical here and now!  

2.  God enlists human agency in achieving God’s purpose for creation.  God invites us to work with and for God to re-make, to re-purpose creation into what God originally intended—a place where all are loved and valued and cared for.

3.  With God, nothing is impossible.  With God, expect the unexpected.  Hope for the unbelievable.  Reach for the unachievable. 

            So, if God is with us here and now, not only acting within human history, but also inviting us to be a part of God’s work, none of us is unimportant.  Each of us can make a significant difference.  Like Mary, each one of us is called to bear God into the world—to carry God’s presence in a unique way.

            How might you bear God into the world? 

            Carol, a single mother, wanted to join a Sunday evening counseling group.  But she could not afford a weekly babysitter for her kindergartner son.  So, the parents of one of his classmates invited him to come over and play with their child every Sunday evening.  A weekly playdate—that’s no big deal, it’s insignificant—or so these parents thought.  After a few months, Carol shared with this couple that she could not have gotten through that time without the support group.  And it was only because her son was playing at their home each Sunday evening, that she was able to attend the group meetings. How did this family bear God’s presence into the world? in a weekly playdate.  Did they make a significant difference?  For Carol, they did. 

            Each one of us is important in God’s plan.  Like Mary, we can choose whether and how we respond to the challenging invitation to bear God into the world.  Yes, each one of us is called to carry God’s presence into a world that hopes for, longs for, aches for it.  Listen . . .  what divine invitation is being offered to you?  Will you respond, “Here I am, the servant of the Lord.  Let it be with me according to God’s word.”

Let us pray:

Living God,

Who gave to Mary anxious questioning,

faith to believe, and the space to say “yes,” 

Keep us alert for visiting angels,

to hear your call,

to be honest yet faithful,

and know that for you,

nothing is impossible, in Jesus Christ.  Amen.

(prayer from Brian Wren, Advent, Christmas, and Ephiphany:  Liturgies and Prayers for Public Worship.  Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008.  p. 66)

Oaks of Righteousness--Isaiah 61: 1 - 4, 8 - 11

            Thirty years ago, interviewing the very private actress Katherine Hepburn, Barbara Walters posed the question, “If you were a tree, what kind would you be?”  Hepburn replied “an elm” and gave reasons for her choice.  Watching that interview, I was surprised she had not replied “an oak.”  After all, in southeast Texas—where I grew up—the oak is a magnificent tree, growing in the rich soil of the bottomlands.  In Texas, the oak is a symbol for grace, strength, and longevity—3 traits I observed in Katherine Hepburn.  At the time of the interview, I was living in Austin where downtown there stood a vigorous, mighty 500 year-old oak tree named “Treaty Oak.” 

It is the lone survivor of a grove of oaks sacred to the indigenous Tonkawa and Commanche native Americans.  If Barbara Walters had asked me what kind of tree I wanted to be, I would have replied “an oak!” 

            In today’s text we hear, “They will be called oaks of righteousness.”  Isaiah is speaking to and about the Jewish exiles who have returned to Jerusalem.  All those years in captivity—time enough for 2 generations to be born and grow into adulthood—all those years in captivity, the exiles had longed for their homeland, Judah.  As the older generations told their stories, the younger ones listened and learned of days of glory, of a strong and fortified Jerusalem, of a fertile land with thriving vineyards, of a people chosen and blessed by God.  The exiled people wept over what was lost until the prophet Isaiah brought them words of hope—words we heard last Sunday.  God saying, “Comfort my people.  Tell them they have served their time. Tell them I am making a smooth, level road to speed my reunion with them, a road for them to travel with me back to Judah.”  Those words brought hope to the Jewish people living in captivity—hope that God had not abandoned them, hope that God would lead them back home.

            And they did return to their homeland.  When, Cyrus, king of Persia defeated Babylon, he not only released the Israelites, but he also commissioned Jewish leaders holding positions of power within his empire to lead the exiles home and to oversee the rebuilding of their temple.  Imagine how hopeful the exiles must have been as they traveled—home to their land, home to their temple, home to their dreams of renewed glory.

            But when they arrived, they found devastation.  The temple, razed to the ground at the end of the Babylonian siege 50 years before, was still in ruins.  The city, although inhabited, was not fortified and resembled a rambling outpost more than the capital city of a God-blessed people.  The land, once dotted with well-tended vineyards and olive groves barely sustained those who currently inhabited it.  There was much to do and few resources from which to draw.  Imagine how the enormity of the task of rebuilding tempered their joy at returning home. It is to this group of people—several years after their return from exile, tired from laying the groundwork for rebuilding, disappointed with the results so far, still just barely getting by—It is to this group of people that Isaiah speaks the words from today’s text—words of encouragement.

            Empowered by God’s spirit Isaiah promises restoration and renewal.  Empowered by God’s spirit, the people will complete the rebuilding.

            Isaiah speaks words of hope.  The people will be oaks of righteousness.  “The biblical oak was an evergreen tree . . . never shed[ding] its leaves . . . it always seemed to remain ‘alive.’”[1] God is promising life—flourishing life—for the people.  They will be oaks of righteousness.  The righteousness referred to here is not strict adherence to rules or regulations.  Righteousness here is relational. 

            They will have a burning compassion for others.  The land will be cultivated, so that none will go hungry.  The city—including its infrastructure and economy—will be rebuilt so that all will be able to work and contribute to the community’s life.  The temple will be restored so that everyone might worship the sovereign God who brought them out of exile, the faithful God who promised to bless all peoples of the earth through them, the loving God who created them for relationship.

            The people will be oaks of righteousness.  Listening to Isaiah’s prophecy, they probably did not feel strong, faithful, alive—like mighty, evergreen oaks—not yet.  But God’s promise, spoken through the prophet begins the cultivation of these seedling people.  They will, in time, grow into majestic oaks of faithfulness and righteousness.  They and their descendents will cling to these words for 500 years—awaiting God’s anointed one, the Messiah, who will bring good news to the afflicted, freedom to the captives, and usher in not the year of the Lord’s favor, but the reign of God here on earth.

            Can these words of promise and hope, spoken over 2500 years ago to Middle Eastern people returned from exile in a foreign land—Can these words speak to us—free, 21^st century Kansans?  

            What do we know about rebuilding, restoring, renewing?

            What do we know about much to do and few resources upon which to draw?

            What do we know about being tired from long, hard labor?

            What do we know about recapturing glory days? 

            We are well-acquainted with these challenges. So, Isaiah’s prophecy of promise speaks to us, too. We will be oaks of righteousness.

            For through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus the Christ, we are planted in fertile, river-bottom land. Through the power of the Holy Spirit we are cultivated to grow in our faith.  God’s love shines on us, and God’s grace rains on us, nurturing in us a burning compassion—invigorating us to love—to love God with all our heart and soul and mind and strength and to love others as we love ourselves. 

            Like all trees, we begin as a seed; we start small.  Our roots must reach deep into the earth before our seedling grows very thick or tall.  Our roots must reach out underground for nutrients and deep moisture before our branches are covered with leaves.  It is this deep rooting in faith that prepares us to be shade from heat and shelter from storm for those who find their way to our grove. 

            Two Sundays ago I shared with you that this Advent, I would “Keep Watch” for Christ’s coming by attending to Christ’s presence in my day-to-day life.  I said I would ponder the question, “When was I closest to Christ this week?”  Keeping Watch for Christ’s presence is a way of sending my roots deep into fertile soil that will help me grow into an oak of righteousness. 

            Although that Sunday, I shared a “closest to Christ” moment for that week, I did not intend to use you as my accountability group during Advent. But last Sunday afternoon, one of you said to me,  “Mari Lyn, I’m going to hold you accountable.  You did not tell us in worship today how you experienced Christ in your life this week.  And I want to know.”

            So, I will share with you:  Two weeks ago I found myself in Christ’s presence through hospitality.  During that week, several different people took time from their days to sit and visit with me, to share their memories, their hopes and dreams, and their fears.  In the gifts of their time and open communication, I was in Christ’s presence.  These people were oaks of righteousness for me, and their hospitality nurtured this sapling. 

            When was I closest to Christ this past week?  On Wednesday evening, I came here, to this sanctuary and listened as the choir practiced for tonight’s Vespers service. As their practice flowed from greetings and laughter to introspection and song, their music washed over me like rain on the leaves of a tree.  It seeped into the trunk of my oak soul.    

            Isaiah’s prophecy includes us.  We, too, are acorns (oak seeds) planted by God. In this season of Advent, as we prepare ourselves for Christ’s coming, may our roots dig ever deeper into the soil of God’s Word, and may they draw moisture from God’s loving presence, so that we, too, are filled with the hope of becoming oaks of righteousness.

(The photograph of Treaty Oak was found at http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3552/3411898690_afe65d6240.jpg)

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[1] (George A. F. Knight. Isaiah 56 – 66:  The New Israel. International Theological Commentary series.  Grand Rapids:  Wm B. Eerdmans, 1985, p. 56.)

"Prepare the Way for the Lord" (Isaiah 60: 1 - 11; Mark 1: 1 - 8)

       Prepare the way for the Lord. Raise up the valleys, lower the mountains and hills. Make the rough ground level.  Make the rugged places smooth.

            These words remind me of traveling with my family.  When I was a child, we took long vacations, driving across the country to visit historic and inspiring sites.  Traveling on I-20 in west Texas, I remember asking my Daddy “Why did they tear up the hills like that when they built this road?”  For rising up on either side of us on the interstate was part of the inside of the hill—exposed rock.  Why did they blow up the hill to put the highway through it?  Why not make the road go up and down the hills.  My Daddy told me they build the roads somewhat level because cars labor going up and down steep hills and people can travel faster on level roads.  (Actually, anyone who knew my Daddy knows his answer was much more involved with the history of road building for the pioneers and the science and math of angles of incline.)


          Kevin and the girls and I also drove long distances for our summer vacations.  The mountains in New Mexico and Colorado were favorite destinations. After we bought a 4-wheel drive SUV, we got brave and ventured out on routes such as “Oh My God” Road.
  

We traveled roads that twisted and turned along switchbacks, gravel and rock roads, narrow roads with no guardrails between us and the downside of the mountain. Roads that were anything but straight, level, or smooth.  Oh, the sights were beautiful, but the drives were long and bumpy and at times a little scary.

            Our Old Testament text today says: Prepare the way for the Lord.  Make a smooth, level, straight highway so that the Lord may come quickly.

            Why is haste so important?  God’s people are in Babylon—in despair.  For 50 years they have been exiled from their homes, their land, and their temple.  They feel like they have been exiled from their God. For Jerusalem and the land surrounding it was the place of God’s promise to their patriarch Abraham.  It was the place of God’s promise to their ancestors, the Hebrew slaves fleeing Egypt.  It was the place ruled by God’s promised dynasty—King David and his descendants. It was the place of the temple where the people worshiped God.  It was the place where the stone tablets containing God’s law where housed. To be cut off from the land of God’s promise, to be cut off from the rulers anointed by God, to be cut off from the place of worship was to be cut off from God.  God’s people, banished to Babylon, feel banished from God.

            The prophets of the time immediately preceding the exile—Jeremiah and Ezekiel—laid the blame for the fall of Jerusalem, the devastation of the land of Judah, and the exile to Babylon squarely on the shoulders of the Jewish people and their leaders.  Time and again, God had tried to call God’s people back to right relationship, but they had not responded.  Now, 50 years after they had been marched away from Jerusalem, these exiles—and their children and grandchildren born in captivity—hear from God through the prophet Isaiah— “Comfort my people.  Tell them they have served their time. Tell them I is making a smooth, level road that cuts a straight line from Jerusalem to Babylon.”  You see, God is making a road to speed God’s reunion with God’s people.  God is making a road to speed the people’s return to the place of promise. They will be restored.  Even though they have not been faithful to God’s covenant, God is faithful to them. God says, “Tell them I am preparing the way.” 

            This is truly a message of hope to the exiles. God is on the way—not as a judge, for God has forgiven them.  God is on the way, coming as a gentle shepherd drawing them close to God’s heart.

            While we may not have been banished from the place of our roots, Isaiah’s words offer us hope, as well.  For at some point in our lives, we, like the Jews in Babylon, may find ourselves in despair—feeling cut off from God.  Worrying how to pay for unexpected bills, lamenting a relationship that seems to lie in ruins, fearing a doctor’s diagnosis, grieving the death of someone we love, we may find ourselves losing hope—feeling exiled from God—abandoned and alone.  But this text tells us, that when we despair, God prepares a way to be with us, to assure us of God’s loving presence, to draw us as close to God’s heart as a shepherd holding a lamb to his bosom.  In the midst of such despair, this text gives us hope.     

            In our New Testament reading today, we hear the same words.  “Prepare a way for the Lord. Make straight paths for him.”  But these words, spoken at a different time—500 years later, to a different audience—descendents of the Jews who had returned to their homeland, through a different prophet—John the Baptizer, these words, spoken here, have a different meaning. For John the Baptizer calls the people to prepare the way for the Lord.  Not a physical road for the people to travel along, the straight path to which John the Baptizer refers is a metaphor.  For it is the rough places of their hearts which must be made smooth.  How? Through repentance.  By turning back towards God, the people will be forgiven.  John’s baptism with water is a public commitment to prepare the way for the Lord in their lives.  John the Baptizer promises their repentance prepares their hearts, their minds, and their lives for the transformation they will experience when the One who is more powerful than he arrives.  For that One will baptize them with the Holy Spirit. And who is this One coming after John the Baptizer?  Who is this One who is more powerful than he?  It is Christ.  Christ is coming. 

            So John’s message reminds us of Advent.  Advent—a time of hopeful expectation, a time to prepare for the way of the Lord, a time to prepare for the coming of Christ.

            Last Sunday, I offered that, as part of my own Advent preparation, I seek to be aware of Christ’s presence in my day-to-day life.  How else can we prepare the way for the Lord?

            Perhaps we can prepare ourselves by heeding the call of John the Baptizer.  We know, that through the grace of Jesus Christ, we are already forgiven, but that does not preclude our repenting—our turning back towards God—our re-focusing on God.  Perhaps we can re-focus through daily prayer, study, or reflection.  In the Spirit Box, I invited our children to try out daily reflection by reading the Advent pages I gave them, lighting a candle, and singing with their families.  Perhaps you could try that, too.  I didn’t print copies for each of you, but our church's webpage  has a link to an Advent resource online. 

            If we truly want to invite Christ into our lives this Advent, we need to prepare the way—prepare the way of our hearts through prayerful reflection.

            How do we know that we need to prepare? God says “I will send my messenger ahead of you . . . a voice of one calling in the wilderness.” In both our texts today, God calls someone to be the messenger—someone to bring the good news:  “You who bring good news . . .  lift up your voice with a shout, 
lift it up, do not be afraid; say . . . , ‘Here is your God!’” (Isaiah 40:9 CEB)

            Perhaps you are the messenger this season who will bring hopeful news of comfort and peace to someone who despairs. Perhaps you are the messenger who will invite a friend, neighbor or a co-worker to worship and fellowship.  Perhaps you are the messenger who will befriend someone who is lonely.  Perhaps you are the messenger who will visit someone who is homebound.  Perhaps you are the messenger who will offer a smile of kindness and a word of thanks to a harried store cashier.  Perhaps you are the messenger who will sort, display, and provide warm clothes through our Thrift Shop.  Perhaps you are the messenger who will collect or distribute food for Operation Christmas.  Perhaps you are the messenger who will wrap gifts with Cops for Tots.  Perhaps you are the messenger who will greet people with the sound of the Salvation Army bell.  Perhaps this season, you are being called to be the messenger to prepare the way for the Lord for someone else.

            Prepare the way.  When Kevin’s brother and sister-in-law lived out in the country, they had a ½ —mile long dirt driveway.  Now over the course of a west Texas year, with sun and rain, heat and ice, snow and wind, their drive got bumpy with ruts and wash outs. People would not visit them if their cars were going to bottom out driving up the driveway.  So when Jack and Barbra wanted company—especially when they wanted to host the big family get-togethers and reunions, they had to prepare the way—the driveway.  They had to haul in more dirt to fill in the holes, pack it all down and grate it smooth.

            During this Advent season, what roads are you called to make straight?  Whose way to the good news of God’s presence and love and grace are you called to make smooth?  Prepare the way for the Lord.






  

           

(My apologies to the artist of the beautiful piece at the top of today's entry to the blog.  I failed to keep records of how I found it.

The picture of  "Oh my God Road" is from http://inlinethumb36.webshots.com/42083/2471250910101960247S500x500Q85.jpg

My apologies to the photographer of the straight highway heading to the mountains.  I cannot remember the search I tried to find it.)