February 14, First Sunday of Lent

Deuteronomy 26:1-11; Psalm 91:1-2,9-16; Romans 10:8b-13; Luke 4:1-13

Deacon Sue Nebel

It is a moment of great delight for me when I hand off the Gospel Book to one of the children standing around me and tell them to take it to Children’s Chapel. There they gather in a circle hear the Gospel story once again and reflect together about it. I was tempted this morning, as I sent them off, to add the words, “It’s a great story!” A great story it is, one that I anticipate will engage the children easily. Jesus and the devil. Good guy vs. bad guy. A contest of “I dare you.” How will Jesus do in this one?

Good question: How will Jesus do in this one? We fully expect him to win, of course, but it won’t be easy. The setting for this confrontation with the devil is the wilderness, where Jesus has gone immediately after his baptism. He stays there for a period of forty days, eating nothing. The devil arrives on the scene to tempt Jesus. To test this man who is supposedly the Son of God. To find out how strong and powerful he is. Can he be won over? The devil is a formidable adversary. His first challenge is on the personal level. Knowing that Jesus is weak from hunger after his long time of fasting, the devil says to him: “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.” Jesus responds that one does not live by bread alone. He will not give in to a temptation to satisfy his own personal need. There is much more to life than his own self-interest. Well, that approach doesn’t work, so the devil decides to think bigger. To appeal to the human desire for power. Showing Jesus all the kingdoms of the world, the devil offers him glory and authority over them. On one condition: that Jesus will worship him. To this temptation, Jesus responds, “It is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God and serve only him.’” This Jesus is steadfast in his faith and unshakably loyal to God. He will not be deterred from that. All right then, if Jesus is going to throw quotes at him, the devil will try that tactic. He takes Jesus to Jerusalem, high up to the pinnacle of the temple. There he dares him: “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,’ and ’On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’”. Jesus doesn’t bite on this one either. He counters with another quote, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” The devil is no match for Jesus, so solidly grounded in God. He wins in this confrontation, hands down.

This story of the devil’s effort to tempt Jesus, to draw him away from God is more than a story about Jesus. It describes a fundamental pattern of our lives, the push-pull. back-and-forth dynamic of our relationship to God. A pattern rooted in baptism. The rite of baptism asks us to turn away from evil. To turn and pledge our loyalty to God. I think it would be worthwhile at this point to take a close look at what we promise. I know that some people find it helpful to have a visual resource, like the printed page, in front of them when someone is talking. So, I invite you to take the Book of Common Prayer out from the rack in front of you. It is the red book with a cross on the cover. You may need to share because there are usually only two in each pew.

Now, turn to page 301. At the beginning of the rite of Holy Baptism, the candidates for baptism are presented. If they are adults, they present themselves and speak for themselves. If we have children or infants, parents and sponsors present them and make the commitment on their behalf. Then comes the Examination. You don’t get to just walk up to the font and have holy water poured over you. You have to respond to questions. Big questions. There are six of them. First, three renunciation, or turning away, questions:

• Do you renounce Satan and all the spiritual forces of wickedness that rebel against God?
• Do you renounce the evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God?
• Do you renounce all sinful desires that draw you from the love of God?

Look at what we have in these three questions. First, evil as big picture, cosmic forces. Satan, our friend the Devil. And God. The second question focuses on evil in the world, forces that destroy the goodness of human beings, communal life. Things like the desire for power and control, domination and oppression. Systemic forces such as racism, sexism, and economic inequality. And then, third question: Do you renounce all sinful desires that draw you from the love of God. Evil is personal. A me-first or my-interests-over-anyone-else’s mind-set. Words and actions that diminish others and separate us from God.

After the three renunciation questions, we shift to affirmation. The person to be baptized has said “no” to evil and is now ready to say “yes” to God. The very first question names that shift as an act of turning:

• Do you turn to Jesus Christ and accept his as your Savior?
• Do you put your whole trust in his grace and love?
• ·Do you promise to follow and obey him as your Lord?

What is asked for here is allegiance, trust, and obedience. Commitment to Jesus, a promise to follow him, to live according to his teachings.

During this first part of The Examination, the six questions, we are an audience of sorts. We watch and we listen. Then, our role changes. We are asked if we will support the person in their life in Christ. We respond, “We will.” At that moment, we enter into the action. We become active participants. We join the person who has just made a commitment and renew our own promises, in the words of the Baptismal Covenant. It is on page 304 The Baptismal Covenant consists of questions to which we respond. Questions about what we believe. Questions about how we will live our lives. How we will live out our faith in our words and actions.

Here at St. Augustine’s, in the season of Lent, we are going to reflect on these questions, a different one each week. This week’s question is: Will you persevere in resisting evil and whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord? An appropriate choice with today’s Gospel lesson about Jesus and the devil confronting each other in the wilderness. Temptation and resistance. Wouldn’t it be great if that were the end of it? Jesus triumphs and we’re done with the problem of the devil. But it doesn’t end that way. The final line is the lesson is: “When the devil had finished every test, he departed from [Jesus] until an opportune time. The devil isn’t giving up. The struggle will go on. Wouldn’t it be great if our baptismal commitment to turn away from evil and turn to Jesus were a simple, one-time thing? All done, all set, let’s move forward. It doesn’t work that way.

Will you persevere in resisting evil and whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord? The Church, in its wisdom, recognizes that the question is not if we will fall into sin, but rather when. Our struggle is against evil in its many forms is on-going. So, we asked. It asks us to recognize our failings, or wrongdoings. To express sorry and regret. And to ask for forgiveness. And then to return. To re-turn. To repeat that fundamental action of baptism. To turn to Jesus. Resolved to be stronger in the wilderness of our lives. To be better in the work that Jesus wants us to do.

January 24, Third Sunday after Epiphany

Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10; 1 Corinthians 12:12-31a; Luke 4:14-21

Bryan Cones

Has anyone ever asked you why you go to church? If they did, how did you answer them, or would you if they did? What reasons would you give?

I’ll say right off the bat that I don’t think that’s a very easy question to answer—like trying to explain why you’ve been married to the same person for 30 years, or what it’s like to be in a war. There are some questions that don’t lend themselves to one sentence answers. I frankly don’t have my 10-second “elevator speech” ready which would allow me to explain to a stranger all church means to me.

Lucky for me and for us today, all three readings answer that question in pretty powerful ways. The first reading comes just after the Israelites have returned from Babylon and rebuilt Jerusalem and the Temple. They are gathering now to try to remember how to be Jews, specifically how to worship as Jews: After a full generation in Babylon as captives and prisoners, they’ve forgotten how to be God’s free and Chosen People, and they’re probably wondering if God has forgotten them.

And so they tell Ezra to get out the Torah, the books of the law, and read it to them and interpret it for them, maybe even translate it for them, in case they’ve forgotten the ancient Hebrew. It is a restored worship service, and it was so important to them that by the end of it they were weeping, either out of grief for having forgotten who they are, or joy for having recovered that knowledge. But the governor, Nehemiah, tells them not to cry: They are God’s Chosen People, and remembering that is cause for rejoicing. Recovering their worship helped remind them who they really were, and that God hadn’t forgotten them after all.

So why go to church? Because here God reminds us who we are, numbered with Israel among God’s Chosen and Beloved. God always remembers that and gathering here helps us to remember that, especially when life causes us to forget.

There’s some forgetting going on, too, in the second reading, and it also has to do with what believers do when they gather to give praise and thanks to God: The Christians in Corinth have forgotten that the Eucharist really is for everybody, everybody, everybody at church, and have started to have big fancy “Eucharistic” dinners for the rich members, leaving only scraps for the poorer ones.

On top of that, they’ve gotten a little full of themselves, with some of them bragging because they can speak in tongues, or receive special insights and prophecies from the Holy Spirit, which in their mind is more important than organizing the meal or cleaning up after it.

Paul is at pains to remind them: You are one body, and you need each other, all of you. Out there in the world they may value rich more than poor, or some gifts over others, but here we remember that God values most what the world considers weakest. We all need each other as much as our hands need our noses and our feet need our ears.

So why go to church? Because here we remember not only who we are but whose we are: We belong to each other, as one body in Christ, and here we value all our many gifts and differences equally as expressions of the Holy Spirit working among us and within us.

That’s the same Holy Spirit after all, who rested on Jesus, when he went back to his hometown, to his home congregation, and at his usual Sabbath service announced to all his friends and family (and maybe discovered for himself) the mission God had sent him on: to bring good news to the poor, to proclaim release to captives and recovery of sight to those who had lost it, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor.

That’s quite a mouthful—imagine the looks on all those faces when he sat down and said the scripture was fulfilled in their hearing, in him!—but it’s a pretty good summary of what Jesus was all about, and of what he will go on to do in the ministry that starts in this passage in the gospel of Luke. We might even call it his mission statement.

So why go to church? Because it’s here that we remember not only who we are, and whose we are, but what we are here for: We’re the ones who carry on Jesus’ mission in our words and actions: bringing good news to those who are deprived of it, announcing freedom from anything that oppresses people, and practicing welcome and giving witness with those whose dignity has been denied, and proclaiming God’s favor: the unlimited mercy and compassion God offers to all people.

Why go to church? These readings offer some answers, and we may others of our own, but there’s something noticeable still lacking: Just what does all that mean practically. Which brings me to my own final answer to that question.

Why go to church? Because it’s only here, in the community of believers, that we can discover just how we live out what it means to be numbered among God’s chosen, beloved people, who value everybody, everybody, everybody equally in all our gifts and differences, and who seek to live out in real words and actions the justice, freedom, and welcome that God is calling us to bring to all we meet in our everyday lives. This is the place, and we are the people, in which we get to work all that out.

Why go to church? Well, that ain’t a bad way to spend a Sunday morning. 

January 10, Baptism of Christ

Isaiah 43:1-7, Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

Bryan Cones

Whether we realize it or not, we have probably just heard one of the more embarrassing or awkward stories about Jesus recorded in the gospels: his baptism in the Jordan by John, a baptism of “repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” The fact that it’s a story covered by every gospel of the four is a signal that, well, it really happened, though each gospel writer handles it a bit differently.

Mark tells it quickly, as if ripping off a Band-Aid. Matthew has John protesting that he shouldn’t baptize Jesus at all—with Jesus reassuring him that everything will be OK. John just barely mentions it, as if in passing—moving on… For his part Luke doesn’t even call special attention to Jesus’ participation—Jesus was evidently just lined up with everyone else.

Why was this so embarrassing that every gospel has to cover it, to make sense of it? Was it because it made John look like the teacher of Jesus, or because it made it look like Jesus had sins that needed forgiving? Or both?

Truly, it’s pretty likely that Jesus was indeed a disciple of John at the beginning of his ministry, and some of the gospel stories hint at a conflict between them—specifically that some disciples of John left him to go and follow Jesus (with John’s blessing, so the story goes). And we also know that among early believers there was a conflict between those who believed Jesus to be the Messiah and a group of hold-outs who thought it was John. Looks like there may have been a bit of embarrassment even then, a little awkwardness that kept going for a 100 years or so.

Not that Jesus’ awkward and sometimes embarrassing behavior ended when the Holy Spirit descended on him at his baptism. This is the Savior who was literally born in a barn after all, and Jesus keeps it up all the way to that embarrassing death in Jerusalem: He eats and drinks with tax collectors and sinners, including the infamous Zachaeus; he not only talks to women, he even lets them be disciples (!!), such as Mary of Bethany, and some of them even funded the operation, including the woman we know as Mary Magdalene; he heals the slave boy of a Roman centurion, one of Israel’s imperial occupiers. I wonder how that went over...

And that doesn’t even cover what he teaches, notably an offensive parable about a so-called “good Samaritan,” one considered a heretic and traitor by those who heard it, but who turns out to be a better neighbor than the best of Israelite Jews in the story. Then there’s the one about prodigal father with no self-respect whatsoever, who forgives his ingrate son, the one who told his dad that he wished he was dead so he could have his inheritance early, and go and blow it all in the ancient equivalent of Las Vegas.

And, to top it all off, according to this gospel of Luke we read for this whole year, it’s exactly through all these awkward and embarrassing ways that the kingdom of God comes near and the whole world gets saved. And it all starts with that awkward and embarrassing baptism, the one we incidentally share, and which we are going to renew again in just a few minutes. And I think all those awkward parts are worth thinking about, even embracing, as we make our promises once again.

First off, if any of us ever wonder if there is something about us that makes us unworthy to be a part of the body of Christ, anything about ourselves that we find embarrassing or awkward, or even ginormous mistakes or sins in our past (or in our future), we can rest assured: If the story of Jesus and his ministry is any indication, much less the history of the church, there’s nothing that baptism cannot forgive, reconcile, and heal in us, as well as give us strength to make amends and stay faithful to the gospel road Christ lays before us.

Even more, and maybe more importantly, some of the differences or characteristics we bring to that font and this Table, especially those that seem awkward or that others have suggested we should be embarrassed about but are part of who we really are—those may be the exact ones that God is blessing and affirming in us through our baptism into the body of our embarrassing Lord.

Which leads to a consequence, for lack of a better word, of that same baptism, which is simply that it may require us to examine again those attitudes that we may have about our own equivalents of Samaritans and centurions, tax collectors and sinners, women or men or folks in between, anyone who doesn’t fit our own categories of what is “respectable.” It may be that our own attitudes about what is awkward or embarrassing may not quite line up with our awkward and embarrassing Teacher who not only didn’t let any of that get in his way, but deliberately crossed all those boundaries and made his place with the shamed and excluded and mistreated. And to follow him in baptism means to do as he did.

To me, embracing the awkward in both ourselves and others looks like two sides of the same embarrassing coin, and acknowledging both sides steers us toward living more deeply the divine truth at the heart of this story of Jesus’ baptism: “You are my child, the beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” No matter what. Or, as the prophet Isaiah put it centuries before: “I have called you by name, you are mine. You are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.”

That is the blessing God speaks upon all of us in our baptism, without reserve, and it’s the down payment on the universal blessing God pronounces on everyone and everything that God has made. So, if you’re still willing, let us gather at the font and make present once again the awkward and embarrassing moment that started it all. 

First Sunday after Christmas, Year C

Luke 2:41-52

Bryan Cones

So, what do you suppose Mary and Joseph were feeling in those three—that’s three—days that led up to finally finding their son and our dear Lord and not-so-considerate Savior hanging out in the Temple impressing all those religious scholars with his answers? Not having children of my own, it’s a feeling I can only imagine, but my guess it’s something along the lines of the absolute worst combination of feelings in the world: terror, guilt, anger at yourself for letting him out of sight, worry. Surely there are others, and none of them good.

Now imagine the feeling of finding him—finally—and discovering that, well, he wasn’t exactly lost at all. He’d actually taken it upon himself to abscond and follow his interests to the Temple, where he was probably enjoying himself impressing all those teachers.

Which leads me to my main question: Exactly how many deep breaths did Mary have to take before she asked her almost serene question: “Child, why have you treated us like this? Look, your father and I have been searching for you in great anxiety.” Great anxiety, eh. So, how many breaths—like 1,000 or something. Honestly, I think my response would have been something more like, “Listen, kid, Son of God or not, as long as you live under my roof… You’re grounded until you are 30!”

To be fair, perhaps we could put ourselves in Jesus’ place and, if we are older, try to remember as best we can what it was like to be an adolescent: just coming to understand ourselves as different from our parents, maybe already discovering what makes us tick, and maybe wondering if our parents were really interested in knowing what we wanted— and feeling sometimes like they weren’t, really.

Maybe we have even said something like: “Where did you think I’d be? If you’d been paying attention to me you’d know where I was.” And for Jesus, that meant his Father’s house. Looks like the holiday family drama we both read about and perhaps experience has a long pedigree, all the way back to Passover in the year 12-ish—even God’s human family is not immune!

And this, by the way, is the family that is often referred to as the “holy” family: In fact, in the Roman Catholic Church, today is actually called the “feast of the Holy Family.” And guess what: This is the gospel reading they are hearing today, too: The story of a “holy” family full of hurt feelings and misunderstanding, frantic parents who don’t quite get it and teens with independent streaks and sharp tongues. Does that sound familiar to any other families here? If so, it turns out we are all in fine company.

In addition to perhaps making us all feel a bit better about the quirks and even difficult misunderstandings in our own families, I wonder too if this story doesn’t invite us to come back for a minute to the combination of the words “holy” and “family.” If we ever we are tempted to imagine a family that’s always together for dinner (with phones put away), never forgets to say grace, and works out all their issues with good, healthy conversation about our feelings and apologies all around, this story is an encouraging reminder that a holy family is a bit more complicated.

If we take this story seriously as an expression of God’s word, in fact, there is apparently no conflict between family holiness and the inevitable misunderstandings, hurt feelings, and thoughtlessness that are part and parcel of life together. Those rough patches are not only par for the course, they are also moments of grace, opportunities to discover and embrace, gingerly perhaps, God’s presence and action within us and between us.

This God of ours, after all, never seems to limit the divine self only to moments when everyone is being nice and following the rules. If the 12-year-old Jesus is any indication, not to mention the rest of his life, the contrary is true.

All of which point to some suggestions for us as we live together in our own holy families, the first of which is to give ourselves a little grace: God is not asking us to be perfect families— whatever on earth that could mean— but holy ones, open to God in all of life’s moments, and trusting that God is present even when we aren’t at our best. And when we inevitably aren’t, our two main characters, Mary and Jesus, point to a couple of ways we might hang in there together.

First, Mary, who, as the story goes, after her 1,000 deep breaths, was able to make room for curiosity about her son in the midst of what was surely a whirling mixture of relief, anger, and disbelief. Through it all she was able to ask him what was going on in a way that affirmed her love for him and was really honest about how his behavior made her feel. And she was even able to treasure all of it in her heart.

And then there was Jesus, who despite his initial declaration, got back in line and “was obedient” to his parents—recognizing perhaps that he could be true to himself and to his calling while still taking the feelings and needs of his parents into consideration. And he grew in wisdom and grace, too.

Curiosity and consideration—not a bad prescription for negotiating the more difficult moments of family life, and maybe not always guaranteed to help. But when they do, they could also open us a bit more to the ways God might be speaking to us in those situations, and so help take a few more baby steps into the combination of “holy” and “family” God is creating us to be. 

December 25: Christmas Day

Isaiah 52:7-10, John 1:1-14

Bryan Cones

“How beautiful on the mountain are the feet of the messenger who announces peace, who brings good news, who announces salvation.” Feet? Why the feet?

Today’s first reading always makes me raise a curious eyebrow about these “beautiful feet” that have been traversing the mountains, but then I started thinking about a friend of mine who gave birth to her second child a couple of weeks ago. The child’s name is Junia—and when I saw her feet—those beautiful, brand new infant feet—the prophet’s message made a bit more sense to me: Junia’s newborn feet brought good news indeed to her parents: a safe delivery, a new beginning, and blessing from God on the family that was just beginning.

And those feet are the exact kind we are celebrating today: Newborn feet, in particular the newborn feet of the one the gospel of John calls the “Word of God,” sent to bring peace, good news, and salvation. We shouldn’t let that title fool us though: In this case the messenger and the message are one. This Word of God is not in the first place a book or a doctrine or a system of belief, but a person, a baby, born in an inconvenient and uncomfortable place, to a family and a people living in an uncomfortable and dangerous time. And the beautiful feet born in Bethlehem today will eventually take a long and difficult path to Jerusalem, where today’s story both ends and has a new beginning.

But today, though, today we get to stay with these newborn feet, and the heart of the message embodied in this messenger: “to all who received him, who believed in his name,” says John’s gospel this morning, “he gave power to become children of God.” That is to say, it’s not just these beautiful infant feet we celebrate this morning, but a new vision of all our beautiful feet—infant and not—and what this messenger says about them and about us: It’s not just the newborn Son of God we celebrate this Christmas; it’s also the new birth as God’s children he brings to all of us. And with him we become both messenger and message, the signs in the world of the peace and good news and salvation God desires for the world every day of the year.

God’s little messenger invites us to expand our imaginations about what this one birth means for the rest of us, those of us granted the power to become God’s children through our faith in him. I suspect that like the story of Jesus, that journey as God’s children only begins in our birth, and our beautiful feet bear us and God’s message in us through all the moments of life—good, bad, and otherwise.

And it’s in those moments, all of them, that we grow in our understanding of what it means to live as God’s children, as those whose beautiful feet follow in the footsteps of Christ. And those feet grow and change in character on the road, and we with them, on our way to experiencing the fullness of this Christmas mystery in our own lives and journey. These feet of ours bear us, sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively, all the way to the end.

Which puts me in mind of another pair of beautiful feet: those of my grandmother, Jean, who died not two years ago after almost 101 years. My last memory of her was her walking into her bedroom for the last time. It was her bare feet that I noticed carrying her still, aided by the walker she also relied on. Those beautiful feet were the sacrament of her long journey, with all its ups and downs, and they were bearing her finally to the bed where she would begin her next journey into the mystery we celebrate this morning, when what is human joins finally and fully the divine source that made us.

Jesus, Junia, Jean—all moments in the mystery of the Word-made-flesh we give thanks for today, along with our own share in the life of the messenger born this day in Bethlehem.

December 20, Fourth Sunday of Advent

Luke 1:39-45

Bryan Cones

It has always seemed a bit humorous or ironic to me that today’s gospel happens to the be the one that closes our Advent season. Though Advent began with the Big Bangs of the promise of the Second Coming of Jesus to set the world aright, and a series of announcements from the Hebrew prophets about how the God of Israel was going to destroy the enemies of the people and usher in a new age of peace and glory, and even tales of a sharp-tongued desert prophet, John the Baptist, telling off all those religious know-it-alls and Roman bad guys, we end on a quiet note: Two women, both unusually and untimely pregnant, in private, probably wondering together what it is all about.

Welcome to Christmas, or almost, and welcome to a vision of the God who we, at least, believe is coming into the world. Despite the seeming promise of early Advent, in which God invades from on high, trouncing the opposition with a glorious campaign, the God who actually shows up appears in the most insignificant of places, in the company of two more or less powerless people—two women, one older and “barren,” one a teenager, both at the bottom end of the political and economic ladder, who despite their joy and praise today, will give birth to sons who both end their lives where they began them—at the bottom of that same ladder, still waiting for the God of Micah in the first reading to show up and set the world aright.

Kind of an odd way to get ready for Christmas—but perhaps the exact right way for the God we seek, the one who is the subject of our praise and thanksgiving. This is not the God of the powers that dominate the world, who promise to attack, invade, and carpet bomb their way to world as it should be. On the contrary, rather than appear as a top-down invading force, this God of ours appears at the bottom, to transform the world-as-it-is from the bottom up, beginning with those who suffer most from the way things are. This is the God we welcome at Christmas.

I suppose we might wish for a more robust sort of deity, one who takes on and defeats the powers that be—though maybe that God would look a bit too much like the harsh, dehumanizing forces already at work in this world. Perhaps, on the other hand, the bottom-up God is the one we have always longed for, the one who shows up when, like Mary and Elizabeth, we find ourselves holding the short end of the stick—pregnant in the wrong place or at the wrong time, part of a religion or cultural group misunderstood or even rejected and oppressed, or even a member of the gender who most often gets left holding the bag. Or maybe we just fell and hit our heads really hard, and find ourselves at the mercy of people we don’t really know.

It turns out that this God of ours not only shows up in those moments, to those people, to us at our weakest and most vulnerable, but even more that’s exactly when this God of ours is most fully present, most fully revealed, and most ready to bring forth the kingdom of mercy, healing, love, and peace we are so hoping for. This is the God of power in weakness, the God—as we Christians tell the story anyway—born in a barn, to a family on the run, with nothing to his name: that’s when the angels start announcing the Savior’s birth and the next moment of what God has intended all along. How appropriate that our first liturgy on Thursday night, then, will be led not so much by those of us in our high churchy finery, but the by the children and youth, who remain most closely connected to the way God comes into the world in Bethlehem.

Which leaves us, or me at least, with something of a conundrum: How to celebrate such a birth at Christmas? Where might we find the Christ child today, knowing full well that what most of the rest of the world is celebrating is only the top frothy layer of the greatest story we’ve ever told. Perhaps we might begin by remembering in ourselves that in our own moments of weakness, dependence, even oppression, that not only have we not lost God’s favor and love in those most difficult moments, but even more that God is laboring within us more than ever in those times to draw forth the grace and mercy that saves the world, and us along with it.

And as we cast our eyes beyond ourselves, as we do in this season, perhaps they may fall with love, even wonder and worship, upon the Elizabeths and Marys and Josephs and Jesuses who still wander this world today— forgotten, oppressed, suffering— and in whom God is surely calling us to come and adore the divine presence coming into the world through them.

In that way we may partner with God, both for them and for us, to bring forth the world as God intends it. Such a Christmas might add a new “M” word to our holiday vocabulary— making in more “meaningful” perhaps—yet in my own heart and I hope in yours, too, it would probably also be merrier than we could ever imagine. 

December 6: Second Sunday of Advent, Year C

Baruch 5:1-9; Luke 3:1-6

Bryan Cones

What’s in a name? Or more specifically—what’s in your name? What does it mean to you?

I remember as a kid hoping that my name might mean something: I was disappointed that I didn’t have a good saint’s name or family name, some hero for me to emulate, so I looked up “Bryan” and discovered that it was Irish-ish, and it meant something like “high” or “noble.” I wondered if my name meant that’s was what I was supposed to be, or if my parents had chosen for me it because of its meaning, because that’s what they hoped for me.

I’ve often wondered if parents choose names for their children that way, as blessings or even prophecies: for example if Margaret and Chris named their daughter Grace so that she would always know that she is God’s gift, or if Martha Jacobson’s parents knew that she would be as hospitable as her biblical namesake. Or did her name make her that way?

My partner David keeps a list of people from the news whose names seem oddly connected to what they do: there’s David Dollar, an economist at the World Bank; Tito Beveredge, who is the head of a liquor company; or one of my favorites is the Rev. Robin Hood, who is an activist on behalf of the poor in Chicago. Maybe best of all is Art Goodtimes, a proponent of recreational marijuana in Colorado.

That’s actually a pretty biblical way of looking at names: Abram gets a new name when God makes a covenant with him, and so does Sarai, his wife; Jacob becomes known as “Israel,” “one who wrestles with God,” and becomes the father of the nation.

Today’s reading from the prophet Baruch promises a new name for the people upon their return from exile: “Righteous Peace, Godly Glory.” Elsewhere prophets announce other beautiful names for the people: Isaiah promises that those who do justice will be called, “Repairer of the Breach” and “Restorer of Streets to Live in.” These names reflect the particular callings of those who bear them: One of the unique privileges of the people of Israel then and now is to bear into the world the name of the God revealed at Sinai, to be the living witnesses of the relationship between God and Israel revealed in the Torah and in the history of God with the people.

That’s true in the Christian story as well: As we approach Christmas, we remember that the two figures whose births we recall both have their names given to them by the angel Gabriel: Jesus means “God saves,” and John, “gift of God.” Both of them get titles to signify their ministry: baptizer for John, and Jesus “the Christ,” or anointed. Jesus, too, plays the name game: Simon he renames “Peter” or “Rocky,” the rugged foundation of the new community of faith.

So what’s in a name? What’s in your name? What does it mean to you? If God called you to service as a prophet or apostle, what name might God give you? Or are we not important enough for a special name of our own?

Those of us who have been baptized actually did get a special name like that, part of it is all our own, unique to us, and part of it we all share. Along with our given names—David or Paul or Beatrice or Emma—came a title, a new last name of sorts. We are all named “of Christ”: Amy of Christ, Bruce of Christ, Rene of Christ. Each of us is a unique and unrepeatable part of the body of Christ, each of us with a calling of our own within it. In our baptism God has charged each of us with bringing into the world our own dimension of the mystery of Christ, to allow our own unique gifts to bring forth the healing or the peace or the justice or the kindness or the wisdom of Christ, each in our own unrepeatable way.

One of the “comings” of Christ we are preparing for this Advent is the revelation of Christ that appears in each of us and in this church, the mystery of Christ that can only come into the world in us. And this is the place and people where we, as a body, nurture each other into bringing forth the fullness of Christ in this place, in this moment, as the body that is this church.

Which brings us to the troubles of this week, which we can’t ignore, or to the troubles of any week, or to any of the sufferings of the world: Just as it was and is Israel’s vocation to bear the glory and peace and righteousness and mercy of the God of Israel into the world, so it is our Christian calling and privilege to bear Christ into this world, as God’s response to the brokenness and pain, God’s answer to what Margaret Duval two weeks ago in her preaching about stewardship powerfully named the “casual violence” that plagues us, violence that erupts in so many tragic and calculated ways.

Each of us has the capacity to bring into the world in our own unique way, as our own unique selves, a part of the body of Christ through which God desires to save the world. And it is up to each of us to listen for and discover the very concrete ways we might reveal that presence of Christ: in our family lives, in our workplaces, among our friends, and in the marketplace, so that those around us can experience the healing and love of God in Christ as an antidote to the violence that surrounds us and as an invitation to something new and altogether different.

So what’s in a name? What’s in your name? How will you reveal the mystery of Christ this Advent to a world in need of what only you can bring? 

November 29, First Sunday of Advent

Jeremiah 33:14-16; Luke 21:25-36

Bryan Cones

Preaching teachers have long told their students that a good homily is prepared with the Bible in one hand and a newspaper (or its current digital manifestation) in the other. And that’s often good advice, except when the contents of both tend toward grim: In the news almost constant word of violence and unrest, and in the gospel dire predictions about the upheaval that comes before the end of the world.

Today’s gospel is not unlike the one we heard just two weeks ago from the gospel of Mark, with its “prediction” of the certain destruction of Jerusalem, which had already come to pass. This Sunday it is Luke reflecting on the same event, maybe 15 or 20 years after Mark, and still no Jesus riding to the rescue. As a regular preacher, I’m starting feel like a broken record, or, for those of you unfamiliar with records, a corrupted MP3 file.

Reading from both sources, gospel and news of the world, it might be easy to get a little discouraged—maybe a lot discouraged, or even overwhelmed by all the bad news. Maybe we are tempted to lose hope. Perhaps our feelings start to reflect our seasonal color, and we might all get a case of the Advent blues.

But if we look a little more closely at today’s passages, we might find a treatment for our Advent seasonal affective disorder, some words of hope to keep us going. The first comes from the prophet Jeremiah, who promises that “the days are surely coming” when God will fulfill the promise to Israel: a righteous king from the house of David, who will bring Jerusalem peace and safety. Now Jeremiah is no Pollyanna prophet: His promise comes just as Jerusalem is about to fall to Babylon and things are about to get a lot worse for the people. Nevertheless, God’s faithfulness is unshakeable, Jeremiah says, and this defeat will not be the last word.

Luke, too, though promising signs in the heavens and catastrophe on earth, counsels not despair or fear, but courage and watchfulness: “Stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” God’s reign of justice and peace is coming, Jesus says, as surely as the leaves on the fig tree sprout as summer nears. God has already won the victory. Our task is to keep watch for the certain Advent of Christ, not in great signs or catastrophes, but in the slow unfolding of God’s own natural time.

Now with so much bad news in the world keeping us distracted, it may take some effort to see those leaves unfurling. But I wonder if at the edges of the world’s troubles, we may catch a glimpse of the Advent we long for. I can think of two icons that I have been praying with this past year that have given me hope.

The first was a photograph some time around the Ferguson protests: a young African American boy, maybe 10, tears in his eyes, his arms flung around a white police officer in riot gear, and the officer returning the embrace. I have no idea what the story of that photo is, but in my imagination they were resisting the story of anger and fear that everyone else was telling, creating a little picture of God’s reign, however brief.

The second came a few weeks ago here in Wilmette at Village Hall, after two and a half hours of very angry “testimony” about a possible affordable housing development. The meeting was tense with fear and an undercurrent of racism. I was so angry myself that I couldn’t even speak, much less contribute anything helpful. And at the very end of all that, a person I can only describe as a gentleman, in every sense of that word, stood up and spoke kindly and honestly, and tried to acknowledge everyone’s fears, and suggest to us that maybe it wasn’t as bad as all that. And though, as one of only two African Americans in the room, he had every reason to be as angry as so many other people were, he was considerate and thoughtful, and for me painted a picture of a different direction we all might take.

I don’t know about you, but I could use some more of those icons, more pictures of hope to carry with me this Advent. I’d even like to take part in painting a picture like that. So this Advent, I have a proposal, a treatment for the Advent blues: I’d like to suggest we ask God for more icons like these. Here’s how I am going to do it, and maybe you can join me if it seems good to you, or maybe you can think of another way that works for you.

Every morning I am going to ask God to show me just where Christ is coming into the world, to help me see the images that are surely all around me of how God’s reign of peace and love and justice is coming just as surely as the leaves of spring. And all day long I am going to try to be watchful and alert, with my head raised in the certainty of God’s presence, whether listening to the radio, or talking with my coworkers or friends, or online or on Facebook, or walking down the street. And in the evening I am going to try to reflect on my day and mark those places where I saw Christ’s advent, and then thank God, and ask for an opportunity to be helpful, so that I can help God paint an alternative picture of the world as it might be.

And if we all do this together, I’d also like to propose that we share what we see with each other, at home or at church, so that like those ancient Israelites, and those first hearers of Luke’s gospel, and Paul’s Christians in Thessalonica, we might find our hearts strengthened as we await the sure and certain springtime of our God.