Characters from a Story

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector

St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas

December 24, 2010; Christmas Eve, Year A

Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

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Luke 2:1-20 (King James Version) -- And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria. And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; because he was of the house and lineage of David: To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child. 

And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, 

               Glory to God in the highest,

                    and on earth peace, good will toward men. 

And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us. And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child. And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds. But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart. And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them. 

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One of the classic ways to do Bible study, or simply to enjoy stories from scripture, is to look at each Biblical character, and to think creatively about what they can tell us.  In so many Bible stories, we can see a part of ourselves in each of the characters. 

So I’d like to invite you to think about this cherished Christmas story a bit – to play with it – and see what we can learn from some of its characters. 

Let’s start with the arrival in Bethlehem.  Mary and Joseph have travelled a long way, from Galilee – hard travel when you are on the verge of childbirth.  They need a place to stay, so they seek a room at the inn.  And that’s my first character – the Innkeeper.

He’s busy.  The inn is full.  He’s got more to take care of than he can handle.  (Does that sound familiar to anyone here?)  I can imagine that it’s after hours.  His doors are shut; the lights are out.  There comes an inconvenient knock.  Can’t they see the “No Vacancy” sign?

How often are we pushed and stressed, and so we close the windows and doors of our consciousness?  We get anxious and narrow our attention.

Strangers ask for a room.  The easy answer is the factual one.  “I’m sorry.  We’re full.  There’s no room.  Go somewhere else.”  But that’s not the answer this Innkeeper gives.  Wonderfully, he makes room.  “There is a manger,” he tells them.  It’s not perfect, but it is room.  He doesn’t give them exactly what they want, but what he gives is enough.  It is shelter. 

How did he do that?  How did he contribute something so simple and so significant to this eternal story?

First, he had to actually see the couple.  When we are busy and stressed, it’s so easy to close off, shut down – close the windows and doors of our attention.  He could have simply dismissed them as inconvenient customers who have come too late.  Instead, he must have looked at them.  He must have seen Mary’s condition.  He saw them and had compassion.  That will become a theme for the life of the child Mary carries.  He too will see others – especially those who are invisible and on the margins of society – and he will have compassion.  The Innkeeper sees this couple.  And he has compassion.

Then, the Innkeeper had to be modest and generous enough to offer them something inadequate.  There’s an old saying:  “Anything worth doing is worth doing badly.”  Sometimes we get stuck if we think we can’t do things just right, even perfectly.  The Innkeeper is humble enough to do what he can do, even if it doesn’t seem like enough.  Another old saying:  “Your best is good enough.”  He does what he can, and leaves the rest to God.  A third saying:  “Do what you can, and leave the universe to God.”

The Innkeeper can teach us a little something about being awake and open, alert to the unexpected possibility in the stressed busyness of the day.  He also invites us into a spirit of humble generosity, where we can do what little we can, even when it doesn’t seem adequate, and be okay about that.  The Innkeeper’s reward – centuries Christmas pageants where little children dressed in bathrobes open to the knock of the holy family and give the baby Jesus his birthplace.

And then there are the shepherds.  Hard, dirty and dangerous work.  If you could do anything else, you would.  We may think of shepherds with some romantic, pastoral images, but that’s not how it was in Jesus’ day.  Shepherds were resented, like thieves.  They were bad about trespassing, and letting their sheep eat someone else’s crop.  A shepherd’s reputation would be just a notch above criminal.  They lived a hard life.  Sleepless nights outdoors.  Sudden up-close violence, when a predator attacked.  Universal hostility from settlers trying to guard their water and produce. 

So when God does something so spectacular and longed-for as the Messiah’s birth, you would think it would be announced to the priests and religious authorities or maybe proclaimed to some whose holiness and sanctity was obvious or renowned.  But no.  God’s messengers, the angels, visited the shepherds, those rogues in the field. 

The shepherds themselves could have resisted such a message.  They might have disqualified themselves, saying, “Who are we that God would call on us this way?  We’re shepherds; sinners.  We don’t deserve this.  Who are we to receive such blessing?”  They could have shifted back to their sheep – to their everyday rut, and let the night’s darkness return. 

Or, they could have listened, accepted the message, and then done nothing.  Just absorb the wonder, and make no response, no change.  After all, if they were to take that message anywhere, who would believe them?  Who would respect anything a shepherd might say?

Sometimes we can be so rough on ourselves.  We know so many of our own failures and shortcomings so intimately.  We can feel unworthy.  Inadequate.  Who am I, that God would visit me?  …love me?  …entrust me with something wonderful and special? 

But when God breaks into the world, God announces the glad tidings not to the holy or mighty, but to the shepherds.  Sometimes it is through the most disowned part of ourselves that God comes and announces good news to us.  When we recognize our own brokenness and weakness, when we know our own sense of neediness, God can come to love us into wholeness.  Forgiveness and acceptance are the first gifts of Jesus.

The shepherds accept the angelic visitation and the message, and they determine to do something.  “Let us go and see this thing which has come to pass.”  They go to Bethlehem.  They go to the manger.

There they are welcomed.  They are not treated as trash or strangers.  Joseph, the protective father, receives their message.  Mary, the nurturing mother ponders it in her heart.  And the baby, is, well… a baby.  Doing what babies do.  Watching alertly, sleeping, crying, eating. 

And that’s the final character I want to offer you.  The baby; the child Jesus, the child of God. 

Part of what we say is that we are all God’s children.  We are all created in the image and likeness of God.  Within each of us is the divine child.  In the dazzling darkness of this night, the baby Jesus invites us to awaken and embrace our own inner identity as a child of God. 

Here’s how another Episcopal priest, Mark Bozzuti-Jones puts it:  “Being children of God requires that we act like children.  Cry when you need milk.  Act silly to make God laugh.  Listen to what God says.  Throw things off the table and experience God’s patience.  Curl up in the arms of God.  Ask God to read you a story.  Allow God to throw you up in the air.  Play hide and seek with God.  Allow God to play hide and seek with you.  Cry when God goes away.  Squeal with delight when God comes back.  Listen to God say how much you are loved.  Tell God of your love.” [1]

So here we are, characters in the Nativity scene tonight.  Like the Innkeeper may we be awake an attentive to know when God is knocking at our door, to see others and be compassionate.  Even if we don’t think our response is enough, we can trust, whatever we offer will be received, and God can make wonders of it.

Like the shepherds, angelic visitors sing a glorious message to us, unworthy as we may seem to ourselves.  Receive that message with joy, and walk out of here with a song in your heart.  Then live with the freedom and abandon that is your inheritance as a child of God. 

O holy Child of Bethlehem

Descend to us, we pray

Cast out our sin and enter in

Be born to us today

We hear the Christmas angels

The great glad tidings tell

O come to us, abide with us

Our Lord Emmanuel

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[1] Mark Bozzuti-Jones, from The Womb of Advent, Church Publishing, 2007

Broken Dreams

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
December 19, 2010; 4 Advent, Year A
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

    (Matthew 1:18-25) – Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, "Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins." All this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet:

    "Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
        and they shall name him Emmanuel,"

    which means, "God is with us." When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus. 

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Sometimes dreams get broken. 

Joseph grew up dreaming that his life would follow the normal patterns of his expectations.  Just like everyone else in his community, his parents arranged his marriage to Mary from their childhood.  They would have grown up being engaged to one another.  As soon as they were able to bear children, at thirteen or fourteen years of age, they were to be married, to start their own family.  That’s how it happens.  That’s the way it’s supposed to be.  That’s the dream that any young man like Joseph might harbor in his heart. 

But those dreams were shattered by an unexpected pregnancy.  In an honor culture like his, the implications were profound.  His honor had been profoundly compromised.  The expected course of action would be for him to expose Mary’s betrayal and to end the engagement with a public denunciation.  His honor would be restored.  He would be seen as an upright man.  His family could arrange another marriage, and he could have his life back.

But then another dream replaced his broken one.  As implausible as it might seem, this pregnancy has God’s Spirit in it.  There is more here than mere betrayal or lust or immorality or failure.  There is blessing here as well.  A recognition comes to him from deep in his unconscious.  Joseph decides to stay with his betrothed.  He will let go of his former dream and embrace a new one.

We all have dreams and fantasies about how things ought to be.  We have expectations about how life should go, how people ought to behave, what our lives should be.  These dreams form the boundaries of our values; they shape the vision of our lives. 

Martin Luther King could inspire a whole generation toward an ideal of justice with the words, “I have a dream.”  But there is a danger in such dreams – a danger in the idealism that motivates us.  One of the great commentators about living in community, Dietrich Bonhoeffer warned against unleashing the ruinous power of idealism.  When we demand that others conform to our “wish dream” – whether we make that demand publicly or inwardly within our hearts – we often destroy relationships and community. 

Julia Gatta is an Episcopal priest who now teaches at Sewanee.  She visited with our clergy conference last month.  When Julia and her husband moved back from Africa, where they had enjoyed an intense experience of natural community in an African village, they searched for a new place to belong.  After a nationwide inquiry, they returned to a corner of rural, eastern Connecticut where they had already lived for almost twenty years.  Julia became the part-time vicar of a little country congregation, moving into the vicarage next door to the church.

Three years into that life, she was disappointed.  Her dreams for the parish seemed utterly crushed, her feelings hurt by a series of groundless suspicions and foolish misunderstandings.  She began to make plans to leave.  She would have moved, except, they had some unexpected financial troubles.  She found she was forced to stay put.  Even a half-time salary was better than the non-stipendiary work she had been considering.  She resigned herself to working for the paycheck.

Being stuck where she was, Julia decided she might as well try to make the best of it.  It occurred to her that she might try to love her parishioners as they acutally were, not as she hoped they might be. 

Strangely, things began to change.  About a month after what Julia had thought was an entirely interior shift, an elderly parishioner remarked to her, “You seem to be more at peace.”  Julia says, “For reasons I cannot wholly explain, the atmosphere of our life together began to soften.  When parishioners realized that I was not leaving and, in the end, did not even want to go, trust emerged.”  With time, they found they “could take risks and make mistakes and still believe in each other’s goodwill and forgiveness.  Most of the time we simply got on with living the Christian life together.”(1) 

St. John of the Cross said that living with other people is like stones in a bag rubbing each other to smoothness.  People rub us the wrong way.  They let us down.  They don’t live up to our expectations – our dreams and ideals.  Often, our dreams and ideals have so much ego in them.  When our dreams are shattered, something in our ego is threatened too.

Joseph finds his betrothed is pregnant.  It is not just his dreams and ideals that are threatened, it is also his ego.  When dreams get shattered, we lose something we have treasured.  If we tend toward extroversion, we might react with anger.  If we tend toward introversion, we might become depressed. 

Below it all, there is grief.  Something we treasured is lost.  Joseph always thought he would grow up, they would get married, have a family, and live happily ever after, more or less.  That dream died with Mary’s announcement. 

There is no way through grief except through it.  Joseph had lost something precious to him.  He was powerless to change it.  Fortunately, he didn’t act immediately.  The conventional expectation would be for him to break off the engagement publicly and explain why.  If he did that, he would retain his honor.  His parents could arrange another engagement, and he would regain his dream.  If Mary’s family could shuffle her off somewhere far away, she might live in some lessened state of anonymity.  In all likelihood, though, she would be killed for her betrayal, if not by her brothers, by someone else enforcing the morals and values of the community.

But Joseph didn’t react; didn’t act immediately.  He stayed with the tension and the grief.  He took time to grieve; to mourn.  “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

In the dark of night, something happened to him.  In one sense, it changed nothing – Mary was still pregnant, and it wasn’t his child – but actually it changed everything.  Joseph looked again and could see God’s Holy Spirit at work in a way previously unimaginable. 

Sometimes when we have our illusions punctured, we can appreciate what is really there.   Sometimes when we have our egos deflated, we discover gifts that were hidden from us.   Sometimes when we surrender what ought to be, we can actually see and appreciate what is – the grace at work around us. 

Sometimes dreams get broken.  What we had dreamed for is taken from us.  Sometimes dreams get broken, only to be re-dreamt. 

Look.  God is with us.  Emmanuel. 

Who would have dreamed it?

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(1) Julia Gatta, The Nearness of God, (NY: Morehouse Publ., 2010), p. 8

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Gardening in the Desert

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
December 12, 2010; 3 Advent, Year A
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

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(Isaiah 35:1-10) –
The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad,
   the desert shall rejoice and blossom;
like the crocus 2it shall blossom abundantly,
   and rejoice with joy and singing.
The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it,
   the majesty of Carmel and Sharon.
They shall see the glory of the Lord,
   the majesty of our God.

Strengthen the weak hands,
   and make firm the feeble knees.
Say to those who are of a fearful heart,
   ‘Be strong, do not fear!
Here is your God.
   He will come with vengeance,
with terrible recompense.
   He will come and save you.’

Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,
   and the ears of the deaf unstopped;
then the lame shall leap like a deer,
   and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.
For waters shall break forth in the wilderness,
   and streams in the desert;
the burning sand shall become a pool,
   and the thirsty ground springs of water;
the haunt of jackals shall become a swamp,*
   the grass shall become reeds and rushes.

A highway shall be there,
   and it shall be called the Holy Way;
the unclean shall not travel on it,*
   but it shall be for God’s people;*
   no traveller, not even fools, shall go astray.
No lion shall be there,
   nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it;
they shall not be found there,
   but the redeemed shall walk there.
 And the ransomed of the Lord shall return,
   and come to Zion with singing;
everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;
   they shall obtain joy and gladness,
   and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

(Matthew 11:2-11) – When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, "Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?" Jesus answered them, "Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me."

As they went away, Jesus began to speak to the crowds about John: "What did you go out into the wilderness to look at? A reed shaken by the wind? What then did you go out to see? Someone dressed in soft robes? Look, those who wear soft robes are in royal palaces. What then did you go out to see? A prophet? Yes, I tell you, and more than a prophet. This is the one about whom it is written,
`See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you,
    who will prepare your way before you.'

Truly I tell you, among those born of women no one has arisen greater than John the Baptist; yet the least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he."

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Last week I tried – with apologies – my first sports metaphor in many years.  I can’t tell you how many people told me afterward that they actually enjoyed it.  This congregation is full of in-the-closet sports-theologians.  I’m thinking about having a sports analogy every week!  Or at least until I see Kathy headed off to a visit with a lawyer.  (If you weren’t here last week – my wife hates sports analogies in sermons.)

But did you hear about Razorback Tight End D. J. Williams’ winning the 2010 Disney Spirit Award, given each year to “college football’s most inspirational figure”?  D. J. grew up with an abusive, alcoholic, drug addicted father.  When he was eleven, his mother Vicki fled their Dallas home with D. J. and his sister.  Advised that a local shelter was too dangerous for them to live in, Vicki turned to eleven-year-old D. J., showed him a map, and asked him to pick a place for them to live outside of Texas.  His finger landed on Little Rock.

Today, D. J. is an active advocate for domestic abuse awareness, and he volunteers with Big Brothers Big Sisters, the Boys & Girls Club, and Children’s Hospital.  He’s on track to graduate this month, and just won the Mackey Award as the best Tight End in the nation.  Receiving the Spirit Award, D. J. said this:  “Watching my mother, who never quit, is the inspiration for me each day and a lesson for us all.  My hope is the story of my family will show those who are experiencing a similar ordeal that they are not alone and there is help and a way out.”

I heard another story this week about a woman who lived a hard life, with virtually no resources except her own stamina and faith.  She has now sent six children successfully through college.  When she was asked how she did it, she answered, “I saw a new world coming.” 

“The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom...”  (Isaiah 35:1)  Scholars are divided about when this vision was written.  It might have been during a time of great threat, as when Assyria appeared poised to conquer and destroy Judah.  Or it might have been during the Babylonian exile, when the people were taken from their homes and lived as aliens in a foreign land.  Or it might have been after the restoration, when the rebuilding was not progressing and the nation had no life or energy.

It is a word that speaks to us at any time when things feel like a wilderness or a desert – when hands are weak and knees are feeble and hearts are fearful.  “Be strong, do not fear!” shouts the prophet. 

In the desert, the prophet sees flowers bloom and he hears joyful singing.  Healing happens.  Water breaks forth.  There is a path, a Way through the wilderness – a Holy Way, where there is “joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.”  (35:10)

How does Isaiah see something like that when everything around him looks like a wilderness?  How does a poor woman of six children see “a new world coming”?  How does an eleven year old’s finger on Little Rock turn into a highway in the desert?

It is a consistent message in scripture that God is always working to bring life out of death.  We are invited to look at our circumstances with realistic eyes – to see the dryness and wilderness, to accept the disappointment and suffering, to witness the injustice and foolishness – but never let that be the last word. 

James offers a metaphor from nature.  “Be patient, therefore, beloved, until the coming of the Lord.  The farmer waits for the precious crop from the earth, being patient with it until it receives the early and the late rains.  You also must be patient.  Strengthen your hearts...”  (5:7-8a)  A farmer can wait because he knows what a crop of wheat looks like.  A mother can persevere because she knows what a college degree for her child looks like.

John the Baptist sends to ask of Jesus, “Are you the one?”  He asks because Jesus does not look like the Messiah that John imagined.  John imagined an ax at the root of the trees, a winnowing fork clearing the threshing floor, gathering the wheat and burning the chaff with unquenchable fire, especially the oppressive chaff of the occupying Roman army.

Jesus gives him a very different vision than what he expected, what he hoped for.  “The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised,” (and this is particularly important) “and the poor have good news brought to them.”  Bless you John if you are not offended.

But John remains in jail.  We know the rest of the story.  He will die there.  I wonder.  Did he die disappointed, maybe even bitter, because there was no chaff-burning Messiah?  Or did he embrace the vision of a Messiah who did those little things – healing a few and giving good news to the poor?  Was that enough for John in prison?

Sometimes I feel imprisoned.  Sometimes I feel like we live in a desert or wilderness.  I have such hopes, such dreams for a better world, a more just society; I look at so many people who are suffering and struggling – and I want something better for them.  I see so many people doing such terribly destructive things, and I want some chaff burning.

How do you see the wilderness and imagine the garden?  How do you accept your prisons and enjoy the healings and good news?  How do you persevere enough to see a new world coming?  How do you keep going like a mother who won’t quit?

It depends on what you focus on, I guess.  I see a dysfunctional health care system, and yet I rejoice that a little outreach program started from St. Paul’s is now a $12-million-a-year network of clinics helping 20,000 neighbors who used to struggle for access.  I know housing defaults have increased, but I’m thankful that 7-Hills Homeless Center, started from this church, helps hundreds each month and has kept over 200 from losing their homes.  I see national unemployment at nearly ten percent, yet I rejoice that we feed a Parish Hall full twice a week and will soon underwrite a similar kitchen in Tibet.  I worry about the struggling American education system, and I see bright-eyed children from nearby Washington Elementary getting tutoring and encouragement here twice a week.  Last week we got a list of names of children whose mothers are in prison across the street, and before we could offer the list to our Sunday congregation, every child was claimed by our Wednesday Church and especially by our Choir, so each child will get a gift from their mother through one of our Santa’s Helpers.  Tonight we’ll go into their prison to bring good news to the poor and to give the bread of life in an iron and concrete desert.

Isaiah shows us how to see the desert reality while simultaneously imagining a new world.  Jesus shows us how to expose the injustice of empire while healing and bringing good news to the poor. 

We are invited to a dual vision.  This business of facing our desert while watering our garden also works for our personal lives.  How many of us live with personal prisons and dry wildernesses of our own?  Yet the prophet invites us to dream, and Jesus invites us to trust.  Jesus invites us to embrace the hope that can turn our silent, dark stuckness into musical, lighted paths. 

It all depends on how we frame it.  From his prison cell, John had a choice.  He could become demoralized, because the chaff-burning he had expected was not to be.  Or he could become hopeful, because a healing compassion of good news was entering the world.  Did John despair that there would be no burning unquenchable fire, or did he rejoice to know the unquenchable fire of Jesus’ love bringing life out of death? 

It all depends on what you focus on.  D. J. Williams hopes that the story of his family will remind people that we’re not alone – that there is help, and a way out.  A highway through the desert.  For everyone, and for every one of us.