Questing Parson

A Little Sermon Humor

“So,” she said, as we sat on the sofa in her living room and as she grew bored with my selection of the program playing on the television, “I guess you'll be preaching tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday, so I'll be preaching.”

“What are you preaching about?”

“I going to be preaching about the Apostle Paul. While he was in jail praying suddenly the doors of the jail flew open.”

“What are you going to say about that?”

“I'm going to be preaching about all the doors we open and close in our lives.”

“I don't think I understand that.”

“Okay, you come home from school or from shopping or from playing with your friends and you open the door to your house so you can come into a place where you are loved and where people take care of you. You go to school and you open the door to the school so you can enter a place where you can learn and prepare yourself to be an adult. Someday, you'll open a door to your office where you will earn money to be able to provide things for your family. And someday you'll open a door to the hospital where you'll give birth to your baby and my great-grandchild. But, here's the thing, you don't have to open those doors. You could close those doors. And if you close the doors you don't get what's on the other side. And sometimes we open doors and go into places where we shouldn't and we get into trouble. And sometimes we close doors that we should open and we don't get all the things God wants us to have.”

“I've got it,” she said. “It's important to open the right doors and to close the wrong doors.”

I looked down at her ten-year-old face amazed. If this child could get the point of the sermon so quickly surely the adults in my congregation would be thrilled. Oh my goodness, I hadn't anticipated what a really great sermon this was going to be.

“That's right,” I said. “That's exactly what I'm preaching. But I need a funny story to tell.”

“Let me think about it,” she said. She reached over and picked up the remote to the TV; pointed the remote at the screen to turn it off. Then she settled back into the cushions, folded her arms over her chest, closed her eyes and obviously went into deep thought. Suddenly she sat up.

“Here's the funny story: Once there was a man on the inside of a castle. And there was a man on the outside of the castle. They wanted to talk to each other. But they couldn't because the castle door was closed and locked. It was really important that they talk so the man inside the castle kept asking himself, 'What can I do so I can get out there and talk to my friend? Do you know what he did?”

“What did he do?”

“He ran around in circles as fast as he could until he got so tired he passed out. - Get it? He passed out.”

Okay, it wasn't a side-splitter, but in her honor I decided to use it. I began my sermon on doors with my granddaughters joke. I discovered my granddaughter's humor is much more developed than my congregation's.

A Terribly Good Sermon

The parson was seated with four seminary students at Everybody's. For the unsophisticated, Everybody's was a unique emporium of pizza delight located across the street from the entrance gate of Emory University. The parson was delighted that today's seminary students still gravitated toward to Everybody's as had his generation.

While the students talked, the parson gazed out the window remembering his seminary days, when Everybody's waitress wore t-shirts, only t-shirts; when the war in Vietnam was being doggedly protested on the campus, when the school's policy stated that class attendance was not a perquisite for grades; and when, the parson and his best friend, a friend here unnamed because of his prominence as senior pastor at a really, really big church, spent a good many of their seminary days feasting upon the pizza at Everybody's, as well as sampling the various beverages offered in pitchers to accompany the entree. Ah, but the early 1970s were part of a previous century. The parson turned his attention back to the conversation of the seminary students.

“It was really a terrible sermon,” said one of the students, a seminarian from a state on the other side of the continent. “I'll never forget it.” She then went on to state the three points of the sermon, including an illustration the preacher gave for two of the points. “And then,” she said, “his conclusion was, get this, his conclusion was ….”

“Are you serious?” asked another student. “He actually preached that. What a terrible thing. I don't know how you could sit and listen to it.”

“That was a horrible sermon,” said a third student.

“What do you thing, Parson,” asked a fourth student.

“The parson deliberately chewed a moment on his pizza, holding up his hand to the students in a gesture of apology. Pizza consumed, he took a sip from his mug, then asked, “Did you say you heard this sermon when you were sixteen?”

“I did,” the original critic of the sermon replied.

“How old are you?” the parson asked.

“I'm twenty-eight,” she replied.

“So, you're telling me you heard a sermon twelve years ago and today you can repeat all three points, the illustrations for each, and the conclusion, and it was a terrible sermon?”

“It was,” she insisted.

“No,” said the parson. “It wasn't. It was a great sermon; it just didn't fit your theology. But any sermon you can remember for twelve years is a great sermon.”

The students were silent.

The parson asked, “How about another pitcher?”

Looking Forward to Pentecost

“So, how was the sermons last Sunday, Parson,” asked the parson's non-church-going friend.

“It seemed to go okay,” the parson replied.

“Okay, okay, it just went okay?”

The parson smiled at his engineer friend. “Yeah, sometimes they're just okay.”

“I thought you put a lot of effort in your sermons, Parson.”

“I do,” the parson said, “but sometimes they're just okay.”

“So, do you know ahead of time if it's going to be great or just okay?”

“You know,” said the parson, “that's the mystery of it. There are days I walk into the pulpit thinking I've got the best sermon I've written in a decade and after the service I get those standard responses, 'Enjoyed the sermon.' And then there are times I go into the pulpit ashamed of my failed effort and I get stuff like, 'You'll never know what that sermon meant to me.'”

“How do you explain it?”

The parson smiled, “Tell you what, why don't you come to church on May 27^th and I'll explain it to you.”

A Farmville Church Sermon

I Have A Name
John 10: 11-18

I have to tell you, I really got tripped up by a number when I was doing my taxes this year.  Now, believe it or not, I got the taxes completed on time. But there was a glitch. When I filed my return electronically, it came back as unacceptable. The reason the IRS gave was the company number on my return did not match the name Farmville United Methodist Church. So, I called the IRS.

Okay, now let me register my complaint about the IRS right now. I don’t complain about the taxes I have to pay; I’m more than happy to pay them to acknowledge my appreciation of living in this country. I don’t even have a complaint that my return was not accepted. What I complain about it this: With all the money the IRS collects you would think they could afford to get more than one tune to play while I’m on hold for and hour and ten minutes. But, no, they play the same song over and over and over.

Now the first IRS agent who answered was unable to help me. She just didn’t have a clue. So I called my tax preparer. She told me they rejected it because the number and the name didn’t match. I called back. They were playing the same song, and this time they played it for fifty-two minutes. This time the agent said that since the problem was the company’s tax number she would have to transfer me to the corporate division. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the “corporate line” of the IRS, but, if not, I can attest to you that they play the same “on hold” song there as they do for the individual line. I was lucky this time because I only had to listen to it for forty-eight minutes.

This time I got to talk with someone who knew something. He quickly explained to me that my return was rejected because I work for a church that has a dead tax number. Now, folks, I’ve been the pastor of churches that were dead, if you know what I mean. But you are the first congregation I’ve been associated with that had a dead tax number.

While you got that number long ago, it turns out if you don’t use it, as in reporting withholding taxes, in four years it’s dead. Now here’s something interesting. I asked the fellow why I’d not had my returns challenged in all the other years I’ve been your pastor. He explained it was because before I mailed my return in and a person checked it. But this time I sent it over the internet and the computer, being less lazy I suppose than the human, caught the dead number.

So it is, in our world. The IRS knows me by my number but it’s no good unless you, my employer, have a live number. The bank knows me by my account number; the state knows me by my driver’s license number; even websites I visit know me by my Internet Provider number. On and on it goes for me, on and on it goes for you. Everybody knows me by my numbers. But does anyone know me?

We are all caught up in a numbers game. We are in danger of losing the person-to-person, the touching, the looking one another in the eye, the interaction that is the most precious possession of the human race.

There’s an old story of a census taker who knocked on the door of a public housing home. He said to the lady who came to the door, “Good morning, I’m a census taker. What’s your name? And how many children do you have?”

The woman said, “Well, let me see. My name is Mary. And then there’s Marcia, and Duggie, and Sam, and Fred, and Patrick ….”  The census taker interrupted. “I don’t care about the names. Just give me the numbers.” The woman put her hands on her hips and with a no nonsense look on her face replied, “I’ll have you know, sir, we ain’t got into numbering them yet. We ain’t run out of names!”

That, my friends, is my hope for the future. That is what brings me back to this altar time after time. God has not run out of names yet. There’s a reason Jesus used all these stories of shepherd’s knowing their sheep. “I am the good Shepherd. I know my sheep and my sheep know me.”

It’s important to know a name. Names give more information than numbers. Let me give you an example. The twenty-second pastor of this church was a really special pastor in the life of the church. The twenty-second pastor of this church maintained a relationship with the church long after he had departed. This church has a really special relationship with the twenty-second pastor of the church.

Don’t you agree? … I wish you could see the look on the faces of your folks who have been members of this church for a while. You’re all wracking your brains to figure out who the twenty-second pastor of this church was. Look at you. You don’t know what that pastor did. You don’t know whether you were said or glad that pastor left. Now, if I left it at that, the twenty-second pastor, you all would go home perplexed.

But what if I said the twenty-second pastor of this church was Ash McEuen. Oh, my goodness, look what just happened. Those of  you who were not members of this church when the twenty-second pastor was here have just realized who it is. He’s our missionary in Peru. Those of you who were members of this church when he was here suddenly had images projected in your head, pictures of Ash, pictures of his wife Audra, and pictures of those children popped into your mind. Some of you may have had an image of that family kneeling at this altar as we commissioned them to go to Peru to minister in our name.

You see, a name is required to provide meaning. Jesus talks about knowing his sheep; Jesus talks about the sheep knowing his voice; and that knowing requires a relationship not a number.

When I have finished all that I have to do today, I’ll go online. I’ll access the Vital Congregations website of the church and I’ll input what they want to know in the appropriate boxes. And what they’ll want to know is how many attended today; how many were involved in small groups; how much money did we spend outside the church. Always, always, ever since I began in the ministry forty-seven years ago I’ve been reporting how much and how many.

What I’d like to report is Jonnie will go pick up Frances tomorrow and bring her here for supper. What I’d like to report is Jackie will be leaving later this year to go to Haiti on a mission trip. What I’d like to report is the names of the people who minister in this church and the names of those to whom we minister because both of them are more important than the numbers.

I’d like to report that because I’m tired of reporting numbers as much as I’m tired of being a number. Everybody knows my number; but does anybody know me?
There’s something special about being a part of the flock, of the shepherd knowing you, caring for you, and looking after you.

Which brings me to the end of this sermon. And this sermon ends in a question. Since the shepherd knows you so well, what image comes to the Shepherd’s mind when he hears your name?

Holy Week Rolls Around Every Year

The parson was doing a little shopping in the kitchen store at the outlet mall. New grater and cheese slicer in hand he approached to checkout counter. He'd just completed his purchase when he heard a voice over his shoulder.

“What's up, Parson? Planning to hone your culinary skills?”

The parson turned to find Sam Abbott smiling brightly. Sam was a new pastor, having been ordained only ten months ago. He served, admirably the parson thought, a small church with tremendous potential about twenty miles south of the parson's parish.

“Sam,” the parson returned delighted to see him. “What brings you out into the country?”

“Culinary arts, Parson. Just like you. But in my case my wife is the artist. She sent me to pick up some things for her.”

“Well, it's good to see you,” the parson responded as he thanked the clerk, took his bag and stepped back for Sam to check his merchandise out.

Sam completed his time with the cashier and he and the parson walked outside. No sooner had they gotten beyond the door than Same piped in, “Parson, I just have to ask you: How in the world do you handle it?”

“Handle what?” the parson asked.

“Holy Week, Holy Week. I've got to tell you, Parson, I had no idea. I have to prepare five sermons this week. Five sermons. Oh, great look at you with your all knowing smile. You've got a well of sermons to draw from. I'm just starting. Every sermon is a new one for me. I have to start from scratch. So, have a little mercy on me, would you?”

The parson smiled even bigger. “Sam, I'm not smiling because I have a sermon already for the Holy Week services. I'm smiling because ….” The parson paused a moment. “Look, Sam, here's the thing. I went to my first church in June of 1965. On April 3rd of 1966 I was standing right where you are now. It was Holy Week and I had enough trouble preparing one sermon a week. So I'm certainly understanding of where you are now.”

“Maybe so, but you're still smiling.”

“I'm smiling, Sam, because on Easter Sunday of 1966 I knew that during Holy Week of 2012 I'd have to preach a sermon on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, at least. You'd think that in all those years I'd have learned something from that experience. But the truth is, Sam, I haven't got a clue what I'm going to preach on Thursday. So, while you're fretting tonight over your sermon you say a prayer for the old parson up the road who's rowing the same boat you are.”

A Farmville Church Sermon

The Promise of Hope

Genesis 9: 8-17

 

There’s a wonderful story about a man who once tricked a leprechaun into telling him where his valuables were hidden. The valuables were in a field, buried under a bush, under a bush that looked like every other of another hundred bushes in the field. The man needed a shovel in order to dig up the treasures. He took a red ribbon and tied it around a limb of the bush so he’d know where to dig when he returned. He got the leprechaun to promise not to remove the ribbon. The leprechaun did and off the man ran. He returned shortly with his shovel and stood looking at the field in amazement. Every bush now had a red ribbon attached to it.

They say it’s because of leprechauns you can never find the pot at the end of the rainbow. But, even so, we’d do well in life if we are constantly looking for rainbows.

The scripture this morning is the end of that great mythological story of Noah and the ark. Noah’s been afloat with all the animals for forty days and forty nights. The ark has come to rest. And now comes the most important aspect of the story. The most important part of the story lies in God’s promise to Noah, to put the rainbow in the sky as a sign of God’s promise to remember the covenant between God and all God’s creatures.

Today is the first Sunday in Lent. This is the season of preparation in which we move toward that fateful final week of Christ’s life, of his death and his resurrection. How appropriate that today’s Old Testament lesson is on this Sunday. The rainbow and the death and resurrection of the Christ are both messages to us that God does not seek to condemn us for our failures; God seeks to save us from our sin.

The last few weeks I’ve found myself reading and watching documentaries about our recent Presidents. Do you remember Bill Clinton’s acceptance speech when he was nominated for his second term? He paid homage to that small town in Arkansas where he was born as he ended the speech, “I’ll always believe,” he said, “in a place called ‘Hope.’”

Each of us can believe in a place called Hope. We can believe it when we see the rainbow. We can believe it when we remember Christ’s sacrifice Bill Clinton, I’ve learned, was a man conflicting desires. He sought the best in himself and yet when he seemingly rose to the heights of greatness he betrayed his better self and those who had placed faith in him and his leadership.

When I was in the service I found myself in a group assigned to Lyndon ; Johnson for a day. You know, I never understood what folks meant when they spoke of charismatic people until that day. There was something about that man, an energy, a confidence, a magnetic quality. And then he got caught up in the Vietnam War, and toppled from his greatness because of his inability to let go lest he be seen as weak.

As I’ve been reading about great men, from Clinton, to Johnson, to Bush, to King David, I’m struck with how similar they are to me, and you. We are all filled with potential, with possibilities, and are all children of the covenant. But we all fail; we fall short; we topple ourselves from the heights on which we were intended to live.

I hope I’m not the only one here who feels that way. I hope I’m not the only one here who fervently desires to serve my God by doing the right thing but time after time relegates God to a secondary position. I hope I’m not the only one here who day after day vows to treat my neighbor as my Lord has commanded and then looks the other way at suffering of others and the abuse of God’s children. Please tell me I’m not the only one. Please tell me you, too, have betrayed God’s goodness. Please tell me I am not the only one who has fallen over and over and over.

I find hope in this story of Noah, hope for my future, hope for my salvation. For that’s what this story is. It is a story of hope. It’s a story of rainbows on the horizon of my life and the horizon of your life.

It is with that hope, then, I can continue to go forward. It is with that hope I can continue to strive not to fail again. It is with that hope I can live as God wants me to live.

Dee Dee Myers, Bill Clinton’s press secretary said of him, “How many chances should you get?” And then she answered the question herself: “How many times have you failed?”

You and I are children of God so, in a real sense, every time we fail we have a chance to be redeemed because God is the God of the rainboow, of hope, of another chance.

How then do we repay God?

As I’ve been studying the lives of these Presidents I’ve noted that each of them had the gift of empathy. They, despite their elevated status, could identify with those who were suffering, in pain, deprived and abused. It was the reaching out to these people that made them attractive despite their other failings.  It was the acts of kindness that endeared them.

I’m never going to obtain greatness like that. Most of you in this room are not likely to become President. But each of us has that capacity for greatness that God desires. Each of us can do those things that recognize the hope that God has given us. We can do that by giving hope to others. Every time we see or think of God’s rainbow we can be reminded of the simple things we can do to acknowledge God’s promise of hope to us.

In the movie “Evan Almighty” God calls Evan, a United States Congressman to build an ark. It’s a move with one laugh after another. In the end a damn breaks and water comes coursing down the valley. But the people are saved when they run onto Evan’s ark. The movie ends with God and Evan talking under a tree about what has happened. In their conversation God reveals what people can do when remembering God’s promise .

 

Will you remember God’s promises to you this week by going out and performing acts of random kindness to your neighbors? And when you fail this week, when you fall, with you remember God’s promise, God’s rainbow, and get up and try again?

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

A Farmville Church Sermon

Calling Me Where?
Mark 1: 14 ~ 20

 

I love the Gospel of Mark. Mark doesn't mess around with extemporaneous details. He gives us the Reader's Digest version. This morning we're only fourteen verses into his gospel and John the Baptizer is in jail and Jesus has begun to call his disciples.

After John was put in prison, Jesus went into Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God. “The time has come,” he said. “The kingdom of God has come near. Repent and believe the good news!”

As Jesus walked beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his     brother Andrew casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. “Come, follow me,” Jesus said, “and I will send you out to fish for people.” At once they left their nets and followed him.

When he had gone a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John in a boat, preparing their nets. Without delay he called them, and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men and followed him.

I've preached many sermons on these verses over the years, sermons about the kingdom being near, sermons about casting nets into the lake, sermons about following Jesus, sermons about dropping everything to follow Jesus, and sermons about poor Zebedee being left with the preparation of the nets because his sons have abandoned him to follow some itinerant preacher

This year, as I re-read these verses I suddenly realized how much I am like these disciples Jesus called. I realized how much you are like the disciples Jesus called. Oh, for sure you haven't been making your living fishing, but you and I have something significant in common with these fishermen Jesus called to follow him.

Here's what it is: “Without delay he called them, and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men and followed him.” And if you'll permit my critique of that day: They followed him but they had no idea what was in store for them.

Can you imagine that day. Can you imagine Jesus the Christ speaking to you, asking you to follow him. Oh, what a day that was. But what hit me about these called disciples was this: When those fishermen lay down their nets to follow Jesus, not one of them had any idea of what was in their future.

On the screen appears a clip from the movie Forest Gump. In this scene Lt. Dan berates Forest for saving him and not letting him fulfill his destiny of dying in battle.

Each of us faces the same dilemma as did Lt. Dan. Maybe not in such a dramatic fashion, but all of us entered into our adult life with some dream of what our destiny would be. Listen, please don't take this the wrong way, but back in the eleventh grade when I answered that call to follow Jesus, I had all kinds of ideas of where this would take me. But in all my visions, in all my dreams, in all my understandings of what it meant to be a follower of Jesus, not once did I have a vision of this church, of this pulpit, of you being the ones who would hear me preach. Sometimes our vision of our destiny gets blown up like Lt. Dan's legs and life leads us where we had no idea we would go.

We, like those fishermen Jesus called, have no idea of what is ahead. And sometimes too often what is ahead is much like what has been behind.

Richard Cardinal Cushing, the Archbishop of Boston, once preached: If all the sleeping folks will wake up, and all the lukewarm folks will fire up, and all the disgruntled folks will sweeten up, and all the discouraged folks will cheer up, and all the depressed folks will look up, and all the estranged folks will make up, and all the gossiping folks will shut up, and all the dry bones will shake up, and all the true soldiers will stand up, and all the church members will pray up, and if the Savior of all will be lifted up . . . Then we can have the greatest revival this world has ever known.

Powerful, powerful words. Truthful words. Words to move people. Words to challenge and to encourage, to surely bring about revival.

I've always wondered on the Sunday following the Cardinal's preaching of those words, how many people were at Mass? I've always wondered if the Cardinal felt some disappointment that everything was the same that next Sunday. I've always wondered if the Cardinal ever questioned his calling when nothing changed.

On the screen appears another scene from the Forest Gump movie in which Lt. Dan scoffs at the notion he will ever be able to walk in heaven with Jesus as some preachers have told him.

“I'm going to heaven, Lt. Dan,” says Forest.

Lt. Dan replies, “Oh … well, before you go why don't you go down to the corner and get us another bottle of Ripple?”

Isn't that the way our religious life is sometimes. We hear the call; we acknowledge the presence of Jesus in our lives, but, wait a minute and life intrudes. We have to go down to the corner and make sure life goes on as usual.
Those disciples of Jesus didn't know what lay ahead for them. And one of the things they did not envision was that life would be much the same, despite the fact they were following Jesus.

It would be the same because somebody still had to prepare the night fire. Someone had to gather up the makings for the evening meal. Someone had to take care of the torn garments, the logistics of getting from this place to that. Life, the everyday life of being human, went on despite the fact they were following Jesus. And it happens that way for us.

Next Sunday the women of this church and many surrounding churches will be gathering here for the Annual Women's Retreat. They'll hear the inspiring music and the challenging words of the Reverend Beth Quick. And if it's anything like previous years a good many folks are going to feel closer to their God. But then someone will have to clean the kitchen, take the garbage out, straighten up the place in preparation for the next event.

I think there's a lesson in that for each of us. Too often we pray for Jesus to come into our lives and change our lives. And by that we mean to make us what we are not. Maybe we should stop looking to change our lives into something our life is not and, instead, invite Jesus into the life we already have.

The second thing about those disciples is they had no idea of how different their thinking would become. They were Jews. And as Jews they looked forward to the coming of the Messiah. As Jews, they had clear understandings of what that Messiah would be like. He would liberate the nation of Israel from the oppression of the conquerors. He would re-establish the Kingdom of David.

And look what they got. The got a servant Messiah. They got a Messiah willing to go to the cross for the sins of all God's children. They got not a liberator but the expiation of their sins on the cross of Calvary. And they got their own lives sacrificed upon the altar of a suffering servant. It wasn't what they planned on. It wasn't what they envisioned. The had no idea what was in store for them in the commonality of their shared lives.

Earlier I said when I answered God's call I had no idea I'd be standing in the pulpit preaching to you. And I'm fully aware when you joined the church you had no idea you'd be listening to this old parson preaching to you today. I won't bore you with the details of my fantasy of what answering that call would be. And you don't have to bore me with the vision of what you thought this church would look like in the Twenty-first Century.

Ah, those disciples were surprised. They never had any idea of how common their lives would remain, of all the mundane things they'd have to do along the path of ministry for those three years. And they had no idea that following that prophet of Nazareth would cause them to reconsider what it meant to wait for the coming of the Messiah.

So here we are, you and I. We're both followers of Jesus. And tomorrow we're both going to have to mop the floors, go to work, cook breakfast, listen to demanding kids and be who we are. But tomorrow, if we are truly followers of Jesus, tomorrow we'll find out he's much more than we thought. And he not only calls us but leads us into a new understanding.

And if you follow Jesus, you, I mean you, plain old you just as you are, will be surprised at what's in your future.

In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

A Farmville Church Sermon

The Absurdity of It
Luke 1: 26~38

Advent 4 (B)

 

In his book, When God Came Down, Max Lucado tells of a professor who is about halfway through his lecture when a young man in the auditorium stood and started asking him questions.

“Are you telling us that God Almighty really became Mary’s little boy?”

“Yes,” said the professor.

“Are you really asking us to buy into a religion based on a young girl’s dream of divine pregnancy?”

“Yes.”

“Are you insinuating that the life of Jesus then actually affects us now?”

“Yes.!”

The young man stood silent for a few moments and then he replied, “How absurd,” and he sat down. (1)

How absurd. It is absurd, isn’t it? It’s absolutely absurd that this God, this Almighty God, the Creator of all that is, would choose to interact with humans in this way. The young college student was right. It’s absurd.

The story of the Annunciation as we read it in Luke and Matthew is just hard to process. We’re asked to believe that the Omnipotent became an embryo, that the Infinite became an infant, that the Almighty became a tiny child nursing at his mother’s breast. It’s more than our little minds can comprehend. (2)

The absurdity of it all is encapsulated in Luke’s story of Gabriel’s encounter with Mary. “Behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus.”

Imagine that. Call his name “Jesus.” Jesus. That’s the equivalent of naming your child John in these days. It was a common, often used, name. Name him Jesus. Granted, Matthew’s version adds a bit: “You shall name him Jesus, for he shall save his people from their sins.”

Jesus. Ah, the absurdity of it. Jesus. You shall call his name Jesus. It may be absurd, but it’s the most profound expression of God the world has ever known.
We have this picture of Christmas in our minds. Every year we recreate the Christmas story. We put the table up in the yard of the church, we pull on the shepherd’s robes, some wise men costumes, and we make sure Mary is dressed in a different color than all the others so she will stand out. Sometimes, if the right member of the congregation has had a baby at the right time the manger actually has a baby portraying the infant God.

We decorate the sanctuary, decorate the trees, make sure the paraments are the proper color, the poinsettias are in place, we sing the Christmas hymns, and over the course of the Advent season read the scriptures pertaining to the season.
We do this with the familiarity of a people who have done this so many times we’re just numb to it. It’s routine; it’s everyday; it’s commonplace.

And there is the mystery of it. What we do is so familiar to us we barely take notice of it anymore. There’s no thunder in the heavens when Christmas rolls around. There’s no sound of angel trumpets when the Advent season begins.

There’s just this tree, these poinsettias, these pieces of cloth covering the altar table and the pulpit. It’s Christmas. It’s Christmas again.

Do you feel the ho hum of it? It’s Christmas. And I bet you’re wondering how long I’m going to preach. It’s Christmas, but there are things to do at home. It’s Christmas.  Aunt Sarah wants to know if everyone can come to her house Thursday night. It’s Christmas. Oh, my goodness it’s Christmas. And, truth be told, Christmas has become ordinary for us. Christmas has become just a repeat of what happened last year. It’s Christmas. There are only seven more shopping days.

Christmas is ordinary. And that’s it, folks. That’s the message. God has come. God has come to be born of a teenage girl, to suckle at her breast, to squirm when God’s diaper was wet, to cry when God was in need of comfort. Imagine it: God learning to walk, God stumping God’s toe, God worried about what folks might thing, God with a pimple of God’s face, God shoveling the manure away from the door, God with chores, God with the sniffles, God attending synagogue, God being …  God being … well, God being just like you, God just like me.

The young college student’s questions in Max Lucado’s story was right. It’s absurd. Think of it. Think of the absurdity of it. God here. God among us. God one of us. God working down at the carpet mill. God shopping at the Dollar General. God trying to make ends meet. God in our world. God experiencing human wants and human fears and human hope and human love. It’s absurd. But it is the message of Christmas. God is here.

You shall call his name Jesus, just a plain ordinary name for a fellow human. God here, today. God singing the hymns with us. God praying the prayers with us. God being human while God is being God.

God waiting for the sermon to end. God belting out the closing hymn. God walking out the door. God shaking the hand of the preacher (I don’t want to contemplate what comment God would make.) God getting into the car. And God heading out for lunch over at your house.

Yes, over at your house. At your table. In the shadow of your Christmas tree, interacting with your family, and who know, maybe after consuming a large second portion of that gastronomic creation for which you’re so famous leaning back and trying to stifle a burp. God at your house. Can you picture it? I know it’s absurd, but it’s the message of Christmas: As absurd as it may seem, God is with us, right here, right now.

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1. Max Lucado, When God Came Down,” Sisters, Oregon: Multnomah, 1999.

2. This train of thought suggested by Dr. Howard Olds in his sermon, “How Can This Be?”, esermons.com.

A Farmville Church Sermon

Joy Comes In the Morning
Psalm 126
John 1: 6-8, 19-28

 

Psalm 126

1 When the LORD restored the fortunes of Zion,

 we were like those who dreamed.

2 Our mouths were filled with laughter,

 our tongues with songs of joy.

Then it was said among the nations,

 “The LORD has done great things for them.”

3 The LORD has done great things for us,

 and we are filled with joy.

4 Restore our fortunes, LORD,

 like streams in the Negev.

5 Those who sow with tears

 will reap with songs of joy.

6 Those who go out weeping,

 carrying seed to sow,

will return with songs of joy,

 carrying sheaves with them.

The 126th Psalm is such a comforting Psalm, giving to those who weep the promise of songs of joy to come. When Israel was at her lowest the Lord, says the Psalmist, restored her fortunes and their “mouths were filled with laughter and (their) tongues with songs of joy.”

Oh, how the people of Israel must have rejoiced in those words. Oh, how we all rejoice when we can know in our hearts, in our very being, the promise of joy.
Long, long years after the Psalmist penned his words there came one “crying in the wilderness,” He was not the Messiah, but there was one coming, he told, whose sandal he was not worthy to tie but who would baptize not with water but with the Spirit, the Holy Spirit. And that was another promise of joy.

I’m grateful for so many of you who have been tiptoeing around me today. I’m grateful for your sensitivity; I’m grateful you remember it was one year ago this coming Thursday when Lynn died. I confess to you this morning that this past year has been horrible. This past year has been a time of total devastation, of getting up some mornings and not really wanting to do anything. of trying to make decisions by asking myself “what would Lynn do”? And the very asking of that question pierces my soul to the core because Lynn’s not here to “do.”

This past week someone asked me, how do you survive losing someone like her. I thought about her question before I answered. I thought hard. And then the words of the Psalm for today came to my mind. I survived because I know that someday my mouth will be filled with laughter and my tongue with songs of joy. I survive because someday I know those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy.

You see, because of the One who comes to baptize with the Spirit, joy will come in the morning. Joy comes in the morning to all who wait upon him promised by the prophets and announced by John.

Joy will come in the morning.

This world is filled with tragedy. Sixteen thousand mothers will watch their children die for lack of food today while American farmers reap their corn to enhance gasoline instead of putting it on the world market to feed those children. It is a sin, it is a tragedy, But when the one who baptizes with the Spirit, the one promised by the prophets and announced by John comes again to this world there will be food for those little bellies and there will be joy in the morning.

There will be joy in the morning. As the angels sang their Gloria to announce his presence long ago, so our mouths will be filled with laughter and our tongues with songs of joy when he comes and all his children are loved. There will be joy in the morning.

We live in a world that puts profits before people, bonuses for executives before bread for the hungry. We live in a world with more than enough resources to solve all the problems of poverty, of hunger. And yet those resources are used for selfish ends, and the gap between the haves and the have-nots grows greater.  But there will come a day, when the One foretold by the prophets and announced by John truly enters into OUR world, when all God’s children will care about each other and join with each other on Mother Earth’s playground to bask in our equality and find our mouths filled with laughter and our tongues with songs of joy. There will be joy in the morning.

We live in a world where the church of the One who came to baptize with the Spirit has lost its way, where we count the dollars and the members rather than losing ourselves in ministry, in being willing to die that others may live. We live in a world where religion has become a stick with which to beat into submission those who may not believe as we do, live as we do or share the same lifestyle as do we, a world where Christian people are intent upon uplifting themselves while damning others. But when he who was foretold by the prophets and announced by John comes to OUR world, we will gather ourselves on a mountainside to hear a sermon once again, a sermon about the merciful, the just, the persecuted being blessed. And then we shall come down from that mountain to right this church, to call her back to service and humility, to love and sacrifice and our mouths will be filled with laughter and our tongues with songs of joy. There will be joy in the morning.

There will be joy in the morning. And because there will be joy in the morning we can go on. We can keep on keeping on, trying one small effort after one small effort to make this world right. We can do that because there will be joy in the morning. When he comes.

This week will be hard on me because I’m still so much in love with Lynn. But this week will be hard on so many others, on some of you, because my tragedy is not unique, my feeling of being lost is akin to yours. My grief is nothing compared to that mother holding that starved dead child. And you, what is your tragedy today, what brought about your sense of being lost, adrift, without meaning?

Oh, listen to me, my friend, this mess we’re in, this personal mess of mine and yours, and this mess of our world, is temporary. It is temporary because there is one foretold by the prophets and announced by John who is coming into our world, and when he comes, for me, for you, and for all God’s children, there will be joy in the morning.

A Farmville Church Sermon

Are You Comfortable

Isaiah 40: 1-11
Mark 1: 1-8

Billy Strayhorn tells about a group of first graders who decided to present their own production of the Christmas story. It was an updated Tale of the Nativity. They decorated the stage to resemble their interpretation of the scene that night. It was made to look like a barn complete with hay bales stacked all about. All the characters were there: Joseph, some well dressed dudes from some foreign land, some farmers were there, too. You could tell by their clothes they were farmers, but there was no indication if they were cattle farmers or not. Nevertheless, they had a representative for everyone. Except for Mary.

As the play began, Mary was nowhere to be seen. And then the audience heard something. It was a groan, softly at first and then louder. Mary was behind the hay bales and Mary was in labor. In no time at all a first-grade actor ran onto the stage. He was dressed in a white doctor’s coat. He grabbed Joseph by the arm and drug him back behind the hay bales. The groans got louder, there were screams. And then it was quiet. The audience knew what had happened. And the doctor confirmed it. He stepped out into the center of the stage with a baby in his arms. He looked at the audience. He smiled a big smile. And he announced, “It’s a God!!”

Children can make us stop and think about the meaning of Christmas. Billy Strayhorn reminds us, “They may not always get it right when they sing or retell the story. But sometimes they get it more than right. They hit it perfectly.

Here we are in the middle of the story on this Second Sunday in Advent. This is a season that is about hope, and love, and peace, and joy. And in light of the Old Testament lesson this morning, it’s a season about comfort.

Christmas is comforting, isn’t it. Or is it? On the one hand you have Isaiah saying, “Comfort, comfort ye my people,” says the Lord. And on the other hand there’s John the Baptist, that scraggly old scrapper from the desert, that cousin of Jesus, that prophet of God who was about as tactful as a two-by-four. How in the world can we talk about comfort and John the Baptizer in the same sermon?

“Comfort, comfort my people.”

Comfort. John the Baptizer. Comfort. John the Disturber. Comfort. John the Upsetter.
Are you comfortable?

Are you comfortable with your version of the Christmas story? Are you comfortable with where you are in your spiritual life?

You know, it occurs to me that you can never know real comfort until you have become intimately acquainted with being uncomfortable, with being upset, with having your apple cart turned over. Comfortable? Are you comfortable?

Look around you. Are you comfortable? Are you comfortable with the disappearance of the middle class? Are you comfortable with the oppression of the poor? Are you comfortable with all the children in this county who go to school hungry? Are you comfortable when you are confronted by injustice?

Joyce Hollyday, lives with her husband in a Christian community in Washington, D.C., called Sojourners. She’s a feature writer for a magazine I read called Sojourners. She was reared in a United Methodist upper middle-class home in Ohio. She went to prestigious schools, including Yale Divinity School. But God called her to something beyond riches, to a life of simplicity and solidarity with the outcast and the powerless in our nation’s capitol. She wrote a book called Turning Toward Home. In that book there’s a powerful line: “This world cannot be a home for anyone of us until it is a home for all of us.”

Are you comfortable? Being comfortable, you see, is something beyond a sense of accomplishment. Being comfortable is more than being satisfied. Being comfortable is certainly something beyond where we now dwell. For, you see, being comfortable is a matter of the Spirit.

“Comfort, comfort my people,” says the Lord. “Not there was a man named John the Baptizer. And he said, “There is one coming after me whose shoes I am unworthy to tie. I baptize you with water. He will baptize with the Holy Spirit.”

Comfort my people. Are you comfortable? I submit to you that the only way we’ll ever obtain real comfort is when we are in God and God is in us, when we receive the baptism of the Holy Spirit. And when we do, because we are comfortable in the Spirit we will never look upon a homeless person in the same way again; we will never pass a beggar without feeling something again; we will never put selfish political and personal agendas above the welfare of our neighbor, be he rich, poor, citizen, or illegal alien. When we are comfortable with God, God will, through us, bring comfort to all God’s children.

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Credits:

The story of the children’s play was part of a sermon by Billy Strayhorn, “The Gift of Comfort,” esermons.com.

The references to Joyce Hollyday were brought to mind by a sermon by King Duncan, “What Do We Need For Christmas?”, Dynamic Preaching Magazine.