Daily Journal: January 9th

Today's Reading: Luke 13:31-35
At that very hour some Pharisees came and said to him, ‘Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.’ He said to them, ‘Go and tell that fox for me, “Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed away from Jerusalem.” Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! See, your house is left to you. And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” ’

Other readings:
Micah 5:2-9 (One who is to rule Israel) and Psalm 72 (Prayers for the king)

Hymn: "When Twilight Comes" by Moises B. Andrade, tr. James Minchin
Prayer: God of the ages, your word is at once powerful and gentle, ancient and new. Your children pull together and tear apart, loving each other and causing each other pain. Gather us under your wing, O Lord, and renew us.

Reflection

I must confess that among my first thoughts in reading today's text has to do with the killing prophets theme and last night's results from the New Hampshire primary. Yes, I am a Barack Obama supporter, and no, not just because he's UCC (although that certainly adds to it). Up until about a month ago or so, I was sort of non-committal about the whole thing: yeah, maybe leaning toward Obama, but not all that strongly, and not with any particular dislike of Mrs. Clinton. Quite frankly, I found Obama's speech at our UCC General Synod this summer a bit disappointing. Something changed, though, in December, and I came to have a certain distaste form Mrs. Clinton's campaign and became increasingly electrified by how I perceived Obama. I really think if we want substantial change in our country, Mrs. Clinton is just too establishment for that to happen. (Now, that said, if she wins the nomination, I'll still vote for her, just not with the same fervor as I would Obama.)

Now, I want to be clear that Obama is not the messiah and Mrs. Clinton is not Herod. But I can't help feeling a certain parallel from the prophet getting killed to the potential for Obama's campaign to fail. Mrs. Clinton is not Herod in this case, rather "the system" is--the 'establishment', the American electorate that buys into fear about a potential terrorist attack and the question of whether someone like Obama would not have enough experience in that event, and all the other factors that contribute to "the system". 'Jerusalem' is the system: "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!" And this is all the prophets, lest anyone think I'm reducing this all to electoral politics or trying to make Obama the prophet extraordinare (which he's not--remember, I was actually disappointed in his General Synod speech, and while I think he's the best choice, I'm not expecting any divine miracles if he gets elected).

I'm not really sure what to make of Jesus' statement that "it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem."

The 'gospel, as well as the judgment of 'the law', in this passage seems to be Jesus expressing his desire: "How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under wings, and you were not willing!" How do we hold on to that promise, that Jesus wants to gather us in? How do we communicate--evangelize--that gospel message to the un-churched / potential new Christians?

Bread for the Day's suggested hymn, "When Twilight Comes" by Moises Andrade echoes the language from today's reading in it's first and second verses.

When twilight comes and the son suts, mother hen prepares for night's rest.
As her brood shelters under her wings, she gives the love of God to her nest.
Oh! what joy to feel her warm heartbeat and be near her all night long;
so the young can find repose, then renew tomorrow's song.

One day the Rabbi, Lord Jesus, called the twelve to share his last meal.
As the hen tends her young, so for them he spent himself to seek and to heal.
Oh! what joy to be with Christ Jesus, hear his voice, oh! sheer delight,
and receive his servant care: all before the coming night.
(Moises B. Andrade, tr. James Minchin, tr. ©James Minchin, admin. Asian Institute for Liturgy & Music)

For a while now, I think we in the liberal/progressive Mainline have been uncomfortable with language like "Oh! what joy to be with Christ Jesus, hear his voice, oh! sheer delight". I have often shared that discomfort. For me, the discomfort is partly a reaction to evangelicalism, and their tendency to use a lot of so-called 'personal relationship' language and 'Jaezzuss' language. But I also think this discomfort is to our detriment. Indeed, it should be good and joyful to be with Jesus, the one who loved us before we could love. Sometimes our 'head' religion has gotten in the way of the response of our hearts. Over the last few years, I have become a little more comfortable with this kind of language. It's interesting to note how some of this same more emotively connective language permeates a lot of those old 16th, 17th, and 18th century Lutheran chorales, albeit in some different kind of verbiage: "Jesus, priceless treasure, source of purest pleasure, truest friend to me: ah, how long I've panted, and my heart as fainted, thirsting, Lord, for thee!" or "Lord, thee I love with all my heart; I pray thee, ne'er from me depart; with tender mercy cheer me. Earth has no pleasure I would share, yea, heav'n itself wer void and bare if though, Lord, were not near me." I don't know if its simply been some maturing in my faith, or my exposure to this latter kind of language (again, thanks to the Lutherans!), some combination thereof, or something else entirely that has lowered my resistance to more emotive, relational faith language.

Sure, there's the danger of descending into maudlin sentimentality, but for those of us in mainline Reformed tradition churches, with our typically intellectual Theo-centric expressions, we benefit, I think, from opening ourselves a little more emotional Christo-centric language. God is relational and compassionate, after all, and we as humans are emotional, relational, and embodied beings.

O Christ Jesus, I believe, help my unbelief. Help me to love you and trust in your promises. Open me, all that I am, to you. Amen.

Daily lectionary readings from Revised Common Lectionary Daily Readings, ©2005 Consultation on Common Texts. Hymn suggestions and prayer for the day from Bread for the Day 2008: Daily Bible Readings and Prayers, ©2007 Augsburg Fortress.

Thoughts on Advent Music

As the Advent season approaches, there's a debate going on in my congregation about what the appropriate hymns to sing are during these four weeks leading up to Christmas. Really, this is not a new debate: my congregation has had some of it before, and many congregations face a similar dilemma.

The struggle, as it were, is basically this: the pastors (myself and my senior pastor colleague), the music staff, and a portion of the congregation want Advent to be Advent, holding off on Christmas carols/hymns until the Christmas Eve services and for the Sunday(s) following that are the actual Christmas season. Another section of the congregation, though, doesn't seem to have much connection with the Advent season or its hymnody, and feels that we should be singing the Christmas carols in those Sundays leading up to Christmas. And, of course, there's probably the silent 'broad middle' of the congregation that doesn't have particularly strong feelings one way or the other on the matter.

In the debate going on in my congregation, I think there are actually a number of realities and issues playing into the dynamics of the debate--issues not directly connected to the debate at hand--and so I'm not sure it's helpful or appropriate to go into great detail about the specifics of how this debate is playing out in this place.

What I want to do instead, though, is give some of the reasons why I feel Advent is important, why I feel we need to let Advent be Advent.

1. -- There's a fairly basic issue about the integrity, harmony, and wholeness of the liturgy itself. Our congregation uses the lectionary to determine the scripture readings for each Sunday. As a preacher and worship planner, I find that worship services are much more powerful and meaningful when all of the elements fit with one another. Specifically, I try very hard whenever I am planning worship to see that the hymns and other music we sing fits well with the scripture readings, the sermon, and any other themes for that day (special celebrations, liturgical season, etc.). Sometimes this "fit" is more direct (a hymn whose text quotes or tells the story of one or more of the readings, for instance) and sometimes this "fit" is more of a 'coordinated' or 'complementary' relationship (a hymn that expresses the same or similar themes, for instance). During the 'festival seasons' (that is, the part of the church year that is not simply Ordinary Time), often choosing most of the hymns out of the repertoire for that season is a sufficient level of 'fit' to bring the sort of harmony I look for. The hymn that follows the sermon, though, (the "Hymn of the Day" as it is referred to in the Lutheran tradition) definitely needs to 'fit' the readings and sermon, for me--little is more jarring than a post-sermon hymn that deflates, contradicts, or is simply unrelated to the sermon and scripture that precedes it (unless for some well-thought out reason a contradictory message is planned intentionally).

So, during the season of Advent, it makes little sense to me to completely ignore the whole nature of what the scripture readings are during this season. For instance, the Gospel reading for the 1st Sunday of Advent this coming year is from an apocalyptic discourse of Jesus, Matthew 24:36-44: "Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming." For that kind of text, something like the well-known "Sleepers Wake! A Voice Astound Us" (a.k.a. "Wake, awake, for night is flying") to the also-well-known tune WACHET AUF is something that fits well. Or, while not being quite so direct a fit, Marty Haugen's "Awake! Awake, and greet the new morn" would fit in a complementary way. Or even "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" complements this text--Jesus is saying "you do not know on what day your Lord is coming" and in response the church prays for him to come. Flipping through one of the hymnals I have at home right now, though, I cannot find a Christmas carol that fits at all with this kind of text.

The situation is the same with many of the Sundays of Advent in all three years of the lectionary cycle. We hear beautiful and powerful prophetic visions from Isaiah about the wolf lying down with the lamb and God saying 'peace' to those under oppression. We hear Jesus speaking of his second coming, not his first. We hear John the Baptist crying out to prepare and repent. How many Christmas carols speak of repentance?

2. -- The church does not need to play into and support the over-commercialization of Christmas and our society's addiction to immediate gratification. As this debate plays out in many churches, there are always folk who say "well, they're playing Christmas carols everywhere else, why can't we sing them in church?" Well, part of the vocation of Christianity and the church is to invite people into "the way", a different way of seeing themselves and the world and a different set of practices. Recently there has been a lot written about the recovery of "Christian practices" in mainline Protestant churches. The way we mark time, as Christians, is part of the different sort of practices we engage in as the church. We set aside one day each week for 'sabbath': worship, rest, and service to others. And we observe a liturgical cycle that deeply connects us with the life of Jesus: his coming, his birth, his ministry, his death, his resurrection, his presence by the Holy Spirit, and his coming again. It is not that we don't celebrate Christmas or sing Christmas carols, but we do so in their own time and place. Advent gives us the opportunity to be immersed in Jesus' "coming"s: his first coming and his coming again.

The demand that we sing Christmas carols during Advent stems from at least two phenomena in American society and American Christianity. One of these I have already named: the combination of commercialization with our American addiction to instant gratification. Why should I have to wait when I can have it now? A second piece, though, has to do with the phenomenon of the American civic religion and the loss of Christian distinctiveness in America. Many in our congregations do not connect with Advent, or with much of the liturgical/lectionary year, because in the so-called glory days of American Protestantism, most Protestants had little to do with such things. Observance of the church year and use of the lectionary is something that most mainline Protestants (the Episcopalians and some Lutherans excepted) only began reclaiming in the late 1960s. It was probably not until the 1980s that you could say it had caught on to a large degree in a majority of the churches. (And, I will add, my particular congregation was especially late in this, as regular use of the lectionary didn't start until around the year 2000.) The idea that the distinctive, historic practices of the larger Christian tradition could have important formational function went largely unrecognized, or thought unimportant, by mid-20th century civic faith Protestantism. It was simply assumed that everyone was Christian and that everyone knew what it meant to be Christian. The idea that Christianity was about inviting people into an alternative way of life, faith, and practice would have been thought odd at best (and perhaps 'ludicrous').

Well, folks, this isn't the 1950s any more. Most mainline Protestants have been engaged in the liturgical renewal movement for at least 30 years. Marking the liturgical seasons, using the lectionary, reclaiming the sacraments, all this is not new. Secondly, we do need to be formed in the faith, to be drink deeply at the well that is the life-death-and-resurrection of Jesus, to be invited into a distinctive community called the church.

3. -- This final piece is connected to the second one, but from a different angle. I'll say it this way: We need Advent. I think the root feeling/theme at the heart of Advent is longing. Simply as humans, we have longing. We long for comfort, for peace, for an end to warfare and hunger, for love. The haunting melody of "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" is a wonderful musical embodiment of that longing. As Christians, though, we are especially a people of longing. We are the ones who "proclaim the Lord's death until he comes"--the focus of which should be at least as much on the "until he comes" part as on the "Lord's death" part. Our basic faith affirmations include "Christ will come again" and "I believe in ... the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting." Our basic prayer is "Our Father in heaven ... your kingdom come." Quite frankly, if we are not a people of longing, then we have definitely lost our way as Christians. If we are not a people of longing, then we have lost sight of all those in this world who are hungry, dispossessed, and enslaved. If we are not a people of longing, then the gospel itself is nothing to us, for we apparently have all we need and all we hope for within our reach. (This is part of the connection to the commercialization of American society theme, because in America we do have everything within our reach, or at least so it seems.) If we are not a people of longing, then we have no use for God at all. "Our hearts are restless until they rest in you, O God," saith Augustine.

We need Advent. We need it in order to reconnect with the longing that haunts inside us, to give voice to our hope for ourselves and the world, to empower us to authentically cry out "Come, Lord Jesus!"

"How the Pilgrims Were Wrong" - A Sermon for the 33rd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C

A Sermon for the 33rd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C
Pilgrim Sunday / Stewardship Sunday
Isaiah 65:17-25; Luke 21:5-19

By The Rev. Matthew Emery
Preached at Second Congregational United Church of Christ, Rockford, Illinois
November 18, 2007

(It must be noted that in my congregation, the Sunday preceding Thanksgiving is observed as "Pilgrim Sunday", a remembrance of the 'Pilgrim heritage' of the Congregationalist tradition.)

A few years ago, May of 2000 to be exact, I had the opportunity to stand where the Pilgrims once had—literally. I was on a European concert tour with the Men’s Glee Club from Michigan State University, a tour that began with a week in the Netherlands. On our very first day, we were driven to Leiden, a university city not very far from Amsterdam. In Leiden, there still stands Pieterskirk, St. Peter’s Church. Stepping inside, you can see the beauty of the gothic architecture, take in the noble vastness of the space, and perhaps even hear some melodies from one of Pieterskirk’s two pipe organs. What you can’t do, though, is actually attend church there, as the building was deconsecrated as a church some years ago. But, as you continue your walk around this grand building, you’re likely to happen upon the reminders of some of the people who once did attend church there. You might see a plaque with a hauntingly familiar-looking boat on it, memorializing one John Robinson. Intrigued, you take a closer look and read the plaque:

In Memory of
Rev. John Robinson, M. A.
Pastor of the English Church Worshipping Over Against
This Spot, A. D. 1609 - 1625, Whence at his Prompting
Went Forth
THE PILGRIM FATHERS
To Settle New England
in 1620
- - - - - - - - -
Buried under this house of worship, 4 March, 1625
[At the age of] [49] Years.
In Memoria Aeterna Erit Justus.
Erected by the National Council of the Congregational
Churches of the United States of America
A. D. 1891”

Indeed, this John Robinson was the pastor of the congregation of Puritans that left England for Holland in 1609 to worship without persecution, the same congregation from which some 35 people (which was actually only a minority of the congregation) set sail for the new world on the Mayflower in 1620. And this Pieterskirk where we find this plaque is the church in which that congregation worshipped.

Knowing what I know now, that I would find myself standing in a Congregationalist pulpit, I am honored that I had the opportunity to place my feet in the very church where the Pilgrim’s feet had trod, to reflect on the Pilgrim pastor—the one who told them as they left that there was “yet more light and truth to break forth from God’s word”—glad to imagine that faithful community at worship in those walls, to glimpse a little piece of their story. And, had I known what I know now, I probably would have taken better pictures.

It is a right and good thing to remember and celebrate the heritage from which we come, whatever that may be. But in honoring our heritage and reflecting on our tradition, we only do so faithfully when we remember with a critical mind, a willingness to recognize that what our forebears did may not have been right, or at least not be the best thing for us to do today. It’s the difference between tradition and traditionalism.

The reason I bring this critical memory thing up today is this: as I’ve been thinking about the Pilgrims alongside the two scripture readings for this morning, the topic—the sermon title, if you will—that keeps popping up in my head is “How the Pilgrims were Wrong.”

I think the Pilgrims may have been wrong because they didn’t quite dream big enough. Now, yes, yes, I understand that understand that leaving everything behind to set sail for a relatively unknown land thousands of miles across the ocean is rather a big thing. So I do not mean to imply that they did not risk a lot—in fact, the Pilgrims risked far more for their faith than most of us here today have had to risk, quite possibly more than many of us might be willing to risk. But my question is not about what they risked, but what did they dream? What was their vision?

In this piece from the last section of Isaiah, God offers a vision, and not just some small vision, but a pretty darn big one. The Israelites have come back from exile in Babylon, and they’ve found out that life is not the rosy walk in the garden that they thought it would be. The city of Jerusalem was still in ruins, they weren’t a self-sufficient kingdom led by someone from the line of David, and even the temple itself was still a wrecked mess. They still vividly remembered their people being plucked from the land they toiled over, driven out of the houses they labored to build. But even as the people despaired and began loosing their vision, God was not done. God had a new vision for them, actually a new vision for the whole creation. “I am about to create new heavens and a new earth; the former things”—that is, the despair, the humiliation, the exile—“shall not be remembered or come to mind.” God is going to create a new Jerusalem, a new city on the hill that would be a light to the nations.

When we hear these promises, this vision, I think it’s hard for us today to really have a sense of how big this is. Sometimes I think it’s maybe easier to think about some heavenly paradise. Ah, yes, in some far away place in some far away time, there’s this place of wonder and peace. I can limit God to heaven and believe that God has some pie in the sky awaiting us. That’s easy. But it’s that ‘new earth’ part of the vision that makes it big, I think. This is a vision about real infants that die too young and real labor that seems in vain. If I were to imagine this vision in today’s terms, it would have something to do a new creation for the very real children we know who grow up in dangerous neighborhoods or maybe the mentally-ill woman I see a few times a week walking down the middle of the street past my apartment, yelling at the traffic that goes by her. Dreaming God’s big dream about this real world is not easy. I mean, come on, that whole wolf and lamb thing—we all know that wolves and lambs don’t go together, and when they do only one of them is get out of it alive… and usually it’s the wolf.

For the Pilgrims, though, in the midst of their struggles with fellow Puritans and the Anglicans and the Catholics, they seemed to have trouble too. They set off to the Americas to create their own city on a hill, their own New Jerusalem. It is as though they lost sight of God’s vision and promise that the New Jerusalem was God’s work, work they were invited and called to be a part of, but still God’s creation in the end. It doesn’t seem as though they had a sense of God’s vision encompassing everyone, all creation and all peoples. And like I’ve said, I think the hard part about this vision is that it is a vision about this world, a promise from God that the very people and land and cities we know will be transformed. And yet, for the Pilgrims, they decided that they had to separate from the church and the world that they knew—they were even called Separatists by other Puritan groups, even by the Puritans that would join them in Massachusetts only 10 years later. From all across the witness of the Bible, we see again and again the promise that God is not done with this world—even to the very end in the book of Revelation, where in the second to last chapter, the loud voice from the throne proclaims “See, the home of God is among mortals. [God] will dwell with them, and they will be [God’s] peoples.” So, looking back at the Pilgrims I think it is fair to question their decision to separate themselves from the rest of the church and from their society.

On the other hand, it is only fair to look back with the critical eye on the Pilgrims if we are willing to turn that critical eye on ourselves as well. Are we too guilty of not dreaming big enough? Often I think yes. When most of us hear the kind of big vision that God has through Isaiah’s words, well… we have trouble dreaming that that kind of radical transformation is possible in our world… and, even if we thought it were, for many of us we have too much at stake with the way the world is now that we don’t want to dream that. We don’t want to be too intentional about engaging with the real practices of Christianity and the church, because then we might just start seeing the world differently. We might start having big dreams. And besides that, if we started being intentional and committed about church and discipleship and Christian practices, then we’d be different—we’d be weird.

Well, friends, the gospel is weird. The gospel says that the world doesn’t belong to those who have money or power, rather it belongs to God. Pretty weird. God not as some hard-nosed distant despot, but rather the gospel speaks of the God loved all of us and all the world enough to come as one of us to be a part of it. Pretty weird. Death as not the final word. Pretty weird. A God who still comes to us through real, concrete, this-worldly things like spoken words, water, bread and wine, communities of real, less-than-perfect people. Pretty weird. God invites us to dream big and then to live as though those dreams were already happening. Pretty weird.

You know, that’s actually one of the good things about the Pilgrims, one of the things they did right that we can learn from: the Pilgrims were pretty weird, too. They weren’t afraid to be known for their faith. They weren’t afraid to let their faith—to let God, even—affect every part of their day-to-day life. They weren’t afraid to engage in practices of faith that made them distinctive as Christians. They weren’t afraid to give everything—their money, their talents, their lives—in response to God, to give thanks for all God’s work. (There, for those of you who were expecting a stewardship sermon today, that sentence was for you.)

What can we do in response to all God has done for us? What’s the biggest, craziest, most lavish vision we can dream of what God is doing in the world? And what’s the weirdest thing we can do, the weirdest people we can be, living out that dream?

Amen, weird dreamers, Amen.

"Have we failed the Reformation? Thoughts on Bread and Forgiveness" -- A Sermon for Reformation Sunday 2007

“Have we failed the Reformation? Thoughts on Bread and Forgiveness”
A Sermon for Reformation Sunday 2007
Romans 3:19-28; John 8:31-36

By The Rev. Matthew Emery
Preached at Second Congregational United Church of Christ, Rockford, Illinois
October 28, 2007

Reformation Sunday is probably one of my favorite days on the church calendar each year. Now, this may seem like a strange thing—Reformation Day doesn’t have the pizzazz of Easter Sunday or any special sentimental feelings like Christmas can have. It’s not even a day that everyone in our own denomination, the United Church of Christ, would be very familiar with—even though it is listed on the official UCC calendar book every year. I suspect that many of you probably don’t know much about Reformation Sunday, either, this day that commemorates the very beginnings of the Protestant Reformation, when people like Martin Luther and John Calvin back in the 1500s started trying to reform the church, but instead created one of the biggest divides among Christians ever, the divide between Protestants and Roman Catholics.

So why is this somewhat obscure day one of my favorites? Well, let me first say that it is not because I think it should be an easy opportunity to bash the Roman Catholic Church. Now, while there is much that I do not agree with, there are certainly things about the Roman Catholic tradition that are good. I know this might be scandalous to say here, but there are even things that they do better than us Protestants, and we might just have something to learn from them. So anyway, for me, Reformation Sunday is not about anti-Catholic feelings.

Some of my friends from seminary and others who know me well might say that my fondness for Reformation Sunday is about my fondness for things Lutheran. Indeed, this day is one that is most commonly associated with Lutherans and, even though I have never been a Lutheran, it is true that I do like many things from the Lutheran tradition—their more liturgical worship and greater focus on the sacraments, and their rich heritage of music and hymns, including our closing hymn today. Of course there’s also that great Lutheran tradition of beer-drinking, but that’s another matter.

But anyway, all of that said, the real reason I like Reformation Sunday so much is because the Reformation was all about reclaiming the central things—identifying again the real, core, central good news of Christianity and focusing in on the practices that proclaim and make real that good news—and then making sure that those central matters are actually what’s at the center of our life together as a church. This is a question that I try to keep in front of me all the time. It’s very easy for us to let matters that are really secondary overshadow what should be at the core of our mission and purpose—and certainly I can be as guilty of that as anyone else. But that’s the gift of Reformation Sunday, to let the question of the central things to challenge us once again into faithfulness.

So, what are the central things? How do we discern what should be at the core of our life together? We could try to talk about the central concerns of the Bible, which in fact we do do fairly often. We could try to look at the creeds and confessions of faith. But I want to propose another way, something perhaps more accessible, certainly something closer to our hearts. In fact, something most of us know by heart, and something we find on our lips every Sunday: the Lord’s Prayer. What can the Lord’s Prayer show us about the central things? **

First, I want to be clear that I’m not simply being arbitrary by focusing in on the Lord’s Prayer. It has been so central to Christian practice throughout history that it’s connected to all our praying, all of the church’s worship and liturgy. It’s connected to baptism, as a “gift” people are taught as they are preparing for baptism or as they affirm their baptisms though confirmation. It’s also connected to Holy Communion, as the final table prayer we pray at the end of all our great thanksgiving-and-praying in preparation for the feast. And it’s something we find amongst our prayers in the morning, in the evening, in Sunday services even when we’re not celebrating a Baptism or Communion. If there is one thing that Christians do together, one thing the Church does, it is pray and worship, and the Lord’s Prayer has such a common and important place that it could in a sense be a symbol to stand for all of our worship and prayer.

The Lord’s Prayer is first and foremost a communal prayer. “Our Father”, “give us”, “deliver us”. And, not only is it the prayer of a community and not just an individual, it is a prayer that expresses the deep longings and hopes of all humanity. It speaks with honesty of the human condition we all face: “longing for God, in need of mercy, justice, and life, hopeful, fearful, likely to fail.” O God, your reign come. Your will of justice and mercy and peace be done. Do not bring us to the test, for we fear we will fail. We pray these things looking to the future, waiting for the day of the Lord that we both hope for and fear. And we pray it along with all humanity—us as priests, praying on behalf of all the people. So this is one thing central to the Prayer, our calling to pray and cry out for others and all people.

But along side everything in the Prayer that pleads the hopes and fears of all humanity, there are two things that stand out as different, that set us apart as Christians from others. Two signs that the “expected, longed-for Day [of the Lord] has already dawned in the life of the [Christian] community itself.” Standing right at the center of the Prayer are two central things that mark us as Christians, as the Church: bread and forgiveness.

“Give us today our daily bread.” Or, maybe it should be “Give us daily the bread for the journey, the bread that sustains”. In visions of the end-of-times, of the coming reign of God, whether in our the book of Revelation or even in the Jewish writings that were around in Jesus’ time, one of the images of God’s reign is a rich banquet table where the great multitudes freely eat of the feast of new, rich, everlasting, abundant life—the bread that sustains. This vision is transformed, though, when we as Christians dare to pray to God to give us that bread, that feast, today, now. We dare to believe that the great, life-giving feast is already breaking forth here, in this place. We are the people who hold a meal together that we believe is already God’s meal—that’s what Christianity has been from the earliest times, a meal fellowship. We receive what God is giving us in the resurrection feast, and then we are sent out to share food with the hungry, to fill the actual needy with actual good things.

The other thing that stands at the center of the prayer—forgiveness—is also about God already doing what we expect in the end-times. ‘Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.’ Or perhaps better, “Forgive us now with your final forgiveness, just as we are turning to each other, ministering forgiveness to those who sin against us.” This is the place where Sunday after Sunday we hear the presence now of God’s promised forgiveness. “Friends, believe the good news of the Gospel: In Jesus Christ we are forgiven.” Not, ‘we will be forgiven’, but ‘we are forgiven’. That’s who we are as Christians, the people who believe that God already started God’s reign in the life and death and resurrection of Jesus. But more, we’re the ones who turn to each other, full of that already breaking-forth power, and minister forgiveness to each other. “The peace of Christ be with you all.” And, of course, we are called to carry that forgiveness out into the world, that others may experience what we know of God already at work.

Of course, forgiveness was one of the central themes for the Reformers, folk like Martin Luther and John Calvin. “Salvation by God’s grace” is the big deal that most people associate with the Reformation, and especially with Luther. Convinced of his own unworthiness, Luther finally came to understand God’s love for him and all people in reading the writings of the apostle Paul. The message we heard this morning in Paul’s letter to the Christians in Rome, that all of us have fallen short, and yet we are justified by God’s grace as a gift—this was the key to all that Luther and his fellow Reformers stood for, all that the good news of the gospel still means for us today. And, I think it is no small matter that we as Christians are the people who pray and speak and act out of the conviction that God is already working such grace and forgiveness among us.

Bread and forgiveness, that’s what stands at the center of who we are, if the Lord’s Prayer is any clue. If the concern of the Reformation was about renewing our focus on the central things, then to ask if we are living into the spirit of the Reformers is to ask ourselves about our bread and our forgiveness. Does “bread and forgiveness” really describe who we are at the core?

Sometimes I worry that it doesn’t. Or at least that it doesn’t seem clear to the rest of the world that bread and forgiveness is what we’re all about. In a new book titled unChristian, David Kinnaman shares the results of some recent studies of young adult non-Christians, 16 to 29 year olds who do not consider themselves Christian. The results are rather sobering: 87% of young adult non-Christians believe that Christianity is “judgmental” and 85% say it’s “hypocritical”. Somehow these aren’t words I’d use to describe something that’s supposed to be about forgiveness. And even more, 91% of them, along with 80% of church-going young adults think that Christianity today is “anti-gay”. Clearly they don’t see the rich, open, hospitable banquet table spread with a life-sustaining feast given for all, the bread that the Lord’s Prayer points us to. Instead, we’re apparently a closed-off, rule-oriented, un-reconciling, judgmental, hypocritical group that “no longer looks like Jesus.”

Are they right? Have we become like the religious leaders that Jesus is talking to in this morning’s reading from John? They had forgotten where they had come from. “We are descendents of Abraham and have never been slaves to anyone.” You almost want to say “Hellllloooooo, remember that whole Exodus thing? Pharaoh, Moses, the plagues, the Passover? Was that just some nice vacation in Egypt?” And more than that, Jesus seems to be saying, we all become slaves to our brokenness, our sin, to the facades we try to put up and the appearances we try to keep up. But there is hope, because in the Son, “we will be free indeed”, as John’s Jesus says. In fact, free we are, already, in the Son, Jesus Christ, the one who taught us the prayer with bread and forgiveness at the center, the one who is the bread of life we receive at the table, the one whose peace we pass on to others in forgiveness.

Inspired by our Reformation heritage, that is the freedom we are called to live in to, the freedom we have in Christ. It is the freedom to lay aside in God’s grace all that enslaves us, all the secondary things that keep us from the central things. The freedom to pray for God’s forgiveness already at work and for the bread of life to be broken in our midst. Indeed, here in this place a word and a feast are set out for us, and here in this place are empowered to be bread and forgiveness for the world—light to the whole human race.

BLESSING AND HONOR, GLORY AND POWER BE UNTO GOD, NOW AND FOREVER. AMEN.

** This exploration of central things is deeply indebted to “The Pastor in Preparing to Preside: The Lord’s Prayer” in Gordon Lathrop, The Pastor: A Spirituality (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2006).

A Sermon for the 14th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C

A Sermon for the 14th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C
2 Kings 5:1-14 (The Healing of Naaman) & Luke 10:1-11,16-20 (The Sending of the 70 Disciples)

By The Rev. Matthew Emery
Preached at Second Congregational United Church of Christ, Rockford, IL
July 8, 2007


But Naaman’s servants approached and said to him, "Father, if the prophet had commanded you to do something difficult, would you not have done it? How much more, when all he said to you was, 'Wash, and be clean'?"

My friend John is pretty good at catching me in some “Naaman moments”, that is, when I’m sounding an awful lot like this guy Naaman in our 2nd Kings reading, trying to make something rather simple into an excruciatingly complicated ordeal. Usually, it starts out with me talking about something I’m planning to do, and my story will involve like 46 steps, the reinvention of the wheel, and weeks of planning. And John, in a sometimes overly ‘older brother’ sort of tone, chimes in like Naaman’s servants: “but why don’t you just _____ (something amazingly simple)”. Then, of course, comes some sort of defense: “but if I just do that, then x, y, and z won’t happen.” “Yeah, and…” usually follows from John, at which point I realize that x, y, and z really aren’t that important anyway, that the job will be accomplished just as well with the simple solution, and that, indeed, the world will not come to an end.

I am willing to hazard a guess that I am not the only person here today guilty of having at least an occasional “Naaman moment.” Some household chore you’re trying to avoid, some long-standing dispute with your brother or your in-laws—really there are any number of situations that can blind us to the solution right in front of us that seems too easy to be right, to simple to be possible, too good to be true.

As Christians, and especially as American Christians of the late 20th and early 21st century, we have so often fallen into this trap. Some 80 to 90 percent of Americans say that they believe in God—probably 60 to 70 percent consider themselves at least nominally Christian—and yet the vast majority of us have completely missed the too simple to be possible, too good to be truth that is the real core of what Christianity is all about. I suspect if you took a random survey of a handful of people who consider themselves at least nominally Christian, whether they go to church regularly or not—if you asked them what it means to be Christian, they’d probably tell you it’s something about being a good person or being nice or doing what is right. And this has a dark flipside: I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard someone say that they can’t go to church because they’re not good enough—they swear too much or they’re a lesbian or they smoke and drink or they don’t pray enough or they’re a single mother, or, or, or… all because of this conception of what Christianity is all about. Even among those of us who do go to church at least occasionally, many still think that what we say and believe and do is not really too important as long as we’re generally “good people”, so to speak.

Where are Naaman’s servants among us? Who are going to be the ones to call us all back to the too gracious, too wonderful to be possible, too fantastic to be true core of our Christian faith? That core that says ‘it’s not about you or what you’ve done, it’s about God and what God has done.’ The truth that rings out “God loves you” and “Christ died for you” and “Christ was raised to new life for you and for your new life” and “Another world is possible—and not some slightly better version of this world of hatred, injustice, prejudice, and despair, but truly another world, a new world.” The light that reveals that churches are not museums of saintly do-gooders, but rather that place where one hungry, broken sinner shares bread with another hungry, broken sinner. The trumpet blast that declares “not only that there is a God, but that God actually cares…actually gives a damn…” about you and about me and about us and about our world. (Quote borrowed from a sermon by David Lose at Luther Seminary and included in the introductory volume of Luther Seminary's In the Company of Preachers audio series.)

Can it really be so simple? Can Christianity and the church really be about God’s love and God’s care and God’s healing and God’s grace? … Is this not what the whole story of the Bible is about? God who creates order and light out of chaos and shadows. God who hears the cries of God’s people and leads the slaves out of Egypt. God who sends prophets to call for justice and faithfulness when the people are entangled in idolatry and profiteering. God who comes to us to be one of us. God who goes all the way, even to death, with us. God who sends the Spirit to sustain us and apostles like Paul to remind us of God’s “grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 3:24) God who shows us a vision of the end of all history of a new world where tears are wiped away and thousands upon thousands feast at the banquet table. Can it really be so simple? Can it really be true? Maybe, just maybe, it’s so wonderful and so fantastical that it can't not be…

The opportunity stands ever before us: “Wash and be clean”. We can take our Naaman selves and walk down to that river bank and immerse ourselves in the abundant waters of God’s grace. We can emerge out of the waters healed and renewed. But, having done so, the opportunity also stands before us for us to take on a different role in the story, for you and me and us to be more like Naaman’s servants, saying to each other and to those outside this place and to the world that it doesn’t have to be so difficult—just come and wash and be healed. Where are Naaman’s servants among us?—we are they. Or, maybe more fully than just Naaman’s servants, we are Jesus’ disciples. Sent out to all the people as in the passage from Luke this morning; sent out not with grand complicated plans and preparations—remember, it doesn’t always have to be so difficult—and sent out simply to teach and to heal and to say that the kingdom of God has come near. Reclaiming the simple yet wonderful and fantastical reality that lies at the heart of our identity, all that remains is for us to go forth in its power and to return in joy, amazed at the demons of the world that fall at our feet.

People of God, if the prophet had commanded you to do something difficult, would you not have done it? How much more, when all he said to you was, 'Wash, and be clean' … and go forth.

"Past = Present = Future = Here": A sermon for Maundy Thursday

• Exodus 12:1-4, 11-14: Israel celebrated its deliverance from slavery in Egypt by keeping the festival of Passover. This festival included the slaughter, preparation, and eating of the Passover lamb, whose blood was used to protect God's people from the threat of death. The early church described the Lord's supper using imagery from the Passover, especially in portraying Jesus as the lamb who delivers God's people from sin and death.
  
• Psalm 116:1-2, 12-19: "I will lift the cup of salvation and call on the name of the Lord." (vs. 13)
  
• 1 Corinthians 11:23-26: In all of Paul's letters, the only story from the life of Jesus that he recounts in detail is this report of the last supper. His words to the Christians in Corinth are reflected today in the liturgies of churches throughout the world.
  
• John 13:1-17, 31b-35: The story of the last supper in John's gospel presents a remarkable event not mentioned elsewhere. Jesus performs the duty of a slave, washing the feet of his disciples and urging them to do the same for each other.
  

By The Rev. Matthew Emery
Preached at Second Congregational United Church of Christ, Rockford, Illinois, on April 5, 2007

You might say that tonight is one of those times when everything comes together for Christian faith. It’s one of those places where we can best see the past meeting the present and both meeting the future—one of those experiences that most brings together the experience of our life today with the story of life in the scriptures and points toward a path of life for tomorrow.

Tonight we visit the past as we join with the Israelite people in remembering the mighty acts of God. Just as God led the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt, so too has God broken all the chains that hold us captive to sin and injustice and all that keeps us from being the people God created us to be. And that past becomes the present tonight as we heard once again the promise and the reality of God’s forgiveness and saw our Ash Wednesday confessions consumed before our eyes. And like the Israelites and the Jewish people to this day who every year re-enact the Passover, the preparation for their walk of freedom across the Red Sea waters, we can take this present into the future by preparing ourselves ever and ever again—making ourselves ready to take part in the freedom, the redemption, God’s redemption, that is taking place in our midst. We could think of what we do here as merely ritual—or we can hear and feel and see the ritual moving and pulling and calling us into trust and faith and action. We can think of the story as past—or we can live as if the story, as if the salvation we anticipate, is a present reality and we can live as if it is the path of life for the future.

Tonight we visit the past as we join with the disciples in the upper room with Jesus. That past becomes present because, just as Jesus commanded his disciples to love one another, this command to love one another is ours today. And that past becomes present because, just as Jesus serves and loves his disciples in the shadow of his coming death, so we too come here to this place tonight and we too are invited to serve and love one another, even in the midst the pain and death and destruction in our lives and in our world. And this present becomes our future as we await that day when the whole creation will be transformed into the servant community and that day when the glory of God will be most fully known—and we are called to live into that future hope as though it is were not simply the future, but also the present, and not merely hope, but indeed the truth.

Tonight we visit the past as we hear the apostle Paul recalling the story of Jesus’ last supper with his disciples. Like the Corinthian church, we too have received this tradition that has been handed on to us. As we join around the table, we remember the past event of Jesus sharing the Last Supper with his disciples. But indeed this past becomes the present tonight too as we gather around the table, because we gather not simply to remember the Last Supper. We gather to meet Jesus here and now, in this place, in these see-able, touch-able, taste-able things of bread and cup. Two thousand years ago, in the shadow of death, some disciples gathered around a table and Jesus was present among them, giving thanks and sharing a meal. A few days later, two disciples came to know Christ in their midst in the breaking of the bread. And this night, we trust that Christ is present yet again in this bread, in this cup, and in this community as we come to this table. And this present is about the future because, as Paul reminded the Corinthians, every time we share this feast, we proclaim both Jesus’ love for us to the end, even death, but also that ultimate promise that Christ will come again.

And yet, there is even more. Tonight, this table is also where all of these pasts and all of these presents and all of these futures come together. This table is where we join together to prepare ourselves for God’s redemption. And this table is where we proclaim God’s redemption already happening. This table is where we give thanks like the Psalmist for the mighty acts God has already done for us. And this table is where we lift the cup of salvation to see our sin washed right now. This table is where we remember Jesus, his love for us and his command to love one another. And this table is where we join together in that love of one another and where we receive the nourishment we need to go out as servants, washing the feet of the world. This table is where we remember the Last Supper, the meal Jesus shared with his disciples some 2,000 years ago. And this table is where we celebrate the Lord’s Supper, the ongoing feast of the Risen Jesus, receiving Christ himself into ourselves, right here, right now. And this table is where we await the banquet table of God, that everlasting abundant feast in the fullness of God’s reign—and we have the gift and privilege of celebrating that future feast right now.

Past meets present meets future. Remembrance meets life today meets the coming future. Ritual re-enactment meets faithful trust meets grace-filled promise. Friends, come to the feast: taste and see that the Lord is indeed good!

Sermon © 2007 by Matthew C. Emery. All rights reserved. Introductions to the scripture readings from Sundays and Seasons 2007, copyright © 2006 Augsburg Fortress.

“Wholly Holy People” - A Sermon for the 3rd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C

“Wholly Holy People”

A Sermon for the 3rd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C
Nehemiah 8:1-3,5-6,8-10; 1 Corinthians 12:12-31a; Luke 4:14-21

By The Rev. Matthew Emery
Preached at Second Congregational United Church of Christ, Rockford, IL
January 21, 2007


Most of you know that not too long ago I spent a year working on the pastoral staff of a UCC church right outside Washington DC. I must say that I think Washington is a great place, and I really enjoyed my time there. Some people, though, find Washington—or I should say, more specifically, the people in Washington—rather irritating. “The first thing anyone ever asks you,” they say, “is ‘what do you do?’” That is, ‘what’s your job, your position?’ In the minds of these Washington detractors, nobody seems to care about anything other than if you can get them somewhere or do something for them because of your job or position. You are what you do—your job—apparently.

Now, I’m not sure I entirely agree with this criticism—I seem to think that “what do you do” is a fairly natural social icebreaker in many situations, a typical (although by no means required) bit of polite conversation. But that is not really my point here. Rather, I wonder, ‘How do you know who you are?’ Are you your job? Are you a name on a driver’s license? Are you simply a money-spending, stuff-consuming machine, as our whole culture of advertising and shopping and, often times, throwing-away would have us believe?

Over the past few weeks, I must confess that I have found myself spending a bit of time on the internet, looking at various people’s weblogs (or ‘blogs’) and profiles on “social networking” websites like MySpace. It is interesting to me what people do on these personal webpages and profiles to create and show a sense of their own identity. It begins with their answers to the stock getting-to-know-you sort of questions: where do you live, what are your hobbies and interests, where did you go to school—that sort of thing. But then, there’s often more. People personalize their pages with music and video clips and personal journal entries. There’s the endless personal survey responses, where folks reveal everything from what they ate for breakfast to … umm … probably some things they don’t expect their mother to be reading. And then, my favorite, are the little “quiz” responses—what the results were when they took the “what ice cream flavor are you?” quiz or the “which horror movie stereotype are you?” quiz.

So, anyway, all this is to say that there’s a lot of effort that seems to go into figuring out just what sort of image one wants to portray to the next random internet user that wanders by. But I’m not sure that knowing what flavor of ice cream some random survey has determined that you are really says much about your true identity. I mean, I’m guessing that no one started weeping when they heard that one.

We, of course, know of a people who wept when they heard who they were, when they were reminded of their true identity. All the people—men and women and all who could understand—stood in the square by the Water Gate and wept when Ezra and others read and explained the law to them. Now, in this passage from Nehemiah, the writer is not talking simply about ‘the law’ like we think of a legal code, but rather about what the Jewish tradition calls ‘Torah’, the books of the law, which correspond to the first five books of our Christian bibles: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy. And so, these people, a people that had been taken away to exile, they wept as they were reminded of the stories of who they were and where they came from: of God creating all humanity in the image of the divine; of God choosing them, the children of Abraham, as a chosen people to be a light to all the nations; of God breaking the chains of bondage and bringing them into freedom from their slavery in Egypt. And surely there was probably some legal code in there too, but a legal code that showed them a way to live as a people set apart, chosen and loved and freed by God—a legal code that called upon them to forgive debts and release captives in the jubilee year, the year of God’s favor. And the people, all the people, they wept as they remembered who the chosen people of God that they were, as they remembered the ways they had failed to live into that identity, as they saw before them the opportunity for a new start at living as the people God called them to be.

Being reminded of who we are is a powerful thing. I remember being at a large gathering of Christians in Philadelphia a little over three years ago, the second “Witness Our Welcome” conference. The first evening, our somewhat rag-tag group of people, brought together because we knew the disdain of society and the rejection of the Church, we sat in the Episcopal Church of the Holy Trinity on the city’s famous Rittenhouse Square as another group that called themselves Christian protested our gathering, in fact our mere existence, outside the church doors. And as we gathered in that magnificent space that evening, the Book was opened, and the Word was proclaimed, this time from 1st Peter: “But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of [God] … Once you were not a people, but now you are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.” Once you were no people, but now you are God’s people. What more wondrous Word could be spoken to such a group? What more wondrous Word could be spoken through their own books of the law to the Israelites returning from exile? Indeed, what more wondrous Word could be spoken here, in this place, to you, to me, to us?

And perhaps as wondrous as that Word itself is how that Word is proclaimed. The Book is opened in the midst of all the people, before all the members of the body, the men and the women and all those that might understand, those more honorable and those less honorable. All the people gathered in from exile to hear again exactly who they are and whose they are—the whole people made into the holy people and the holy people becoming whole people once again.

Moreover, this is the assembly that we form here, Sunday after Sunday. We gather together, all of us, returning home from the exile that we live day-in and day-out, coming to find who we are. Sure, there may be only some 200 or so of us in this particular room, but we gather around this Word proclaimed together with Christians across the street and around the world. And like at the synagogue in Nazareth, we find Christ among us, fulfilling that Word as it is spoken and heard. And that one we find among us, anointed by the Spirit to proclaim good news to the poor and release to the captives sends us out to prepare ourselves as a feast to share with those who have nothing prepared.

At the Water Gate in Jerusalem, a community gathered, the Book was opened, and a people heard themselves and the promises of God anew. At a church in Philadelphia, a community gathered, the Book was opened, and a people knew themselves and the promises of God anew. In a synagogue in Nazareth, a community gathered, the Book was opened, and a people saw the promises of God fulfilled in their midst. So maybe, like those folk in Washington, who we are is about what we do. Or maybe something even more than that. Maybe we do what we do as a sign of the One to whom we belong, the One in whom we know ourselves to be whole people and holy people—and in doing what we do, we find that One, that solid rock upon which we are built, standing in our midst fulfilling ever again the promises of God.

BLESSING AND HONOR, GLORY AND POWER BE UNTO GOD,
NOW AND FOREVER.
AMEN.

Sermon ©2007, Matthew C. Emery. All Rights Reserved.

"What a Guest!" - A Sermon for the 2nd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C

“What a Guest!”

A Sermon for the Second Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C
1 Corinthians 12:1-11; John 2:1-11

By The Rev. Matthew Emery
Preached at Second Congregational United Church of Christ, Rockford, IL
January 14, 2007


Those of you who were here two Sundays ago likely remember the somewhat unusual sermon preached that day. In the reading from the Gospel of Luke, we heard about Jesus at age 12 in the temple, sitting among the teachers listening and asking questions. And so, in some sense creating a sermon together in our midst, we did likewise, sitting among each other as teachers, listening to one another and asking questions that lay deep on our hearts. There were many good questions that we shared in that time, many of them the sort of questions for which the only answer is a lifetime of living the journey of faithful exploration, discernment, and discipleship.

Questions usually have multiple layers. For instance, when someone asks “why did God let this happen?”, there’s almost always a deeper, more critical question lurking underneath it; that is, “how can I go on now that it has?” We like to hide those more vulnerable places, too afraid to even ask about our true yearnings. Or sometimes, the questions we ask reveal the doubts and anxieties we have ourselves.

One of the questions shared two weeks ago is just such a question, I think. As I recall, it went something like “how can Christianity compete in a world with multiple major religions?” Or, bringing the scale down a little bit, many people today ask about how the mainline Protestant churches—churches like ours: a part of one of the historic denominations of this country, rooted in historic traditions and practices, and yet vitally open to differences in theology and beliefs and faith—how can mainline-liberal-progressive churches like ours survive in the midst of the so-called competition from our more charismatic conservative-evangelical counterparts? That is, how can Church Street [our congregation] compete with Colonial Village [Heartland Community Church]? Even for all the very respectable pragmatic concern behind questions like these, I’m inclined to think that they’re not the real matter on our hearts. Or at the very least, that there is something deeper behind them.

What might that be, you ask? I think rather than surviving or competing against others, we want to know that there is new life possible here. We want some sign that our faith has not been in vain, and that indeed a living, vital relationship with God can be had. We seek to see that these vessels we call church—this path of belief and practice, this community of people—that these are still good and still have purpose, and that these can still bear the presence of God to us and others. With our anxieties and doubts combined with the trappings (or sometimes the baggage) of our traditions and history, we might just be a bit like empty jars at a wedding feast.

It’s a little interesting when you look at this story from the Gospel of John to see what the author spends their time telling us about. For the first few verses, they zip right through with plot—there’s a wedding feast in the town of Cana, Jesus is there with his mother and his newly called disciples, the wine runs out, and Jesus and his mother get in a little tussle about what to do. (This latter piece will have to be for another sermon.) And then, having zipped right through all this, in the middle of the story we find the author of John spending an awfully long time telling us about … jars, of all things. How many there were (six), what they were made of (stone), how big they were (20 or 30 gallons each), and what they were for (the Jewish purification rites). In pausing here, on something seemingly insignificant, we see a little glimpse into how Jesus works. He takes something old and solid and good—remember, just last week we heard of Jesus going through a Jewish purification rite himself—these old, solid, good things he transforms into the vessel for the gift of something new and wonderful, and does so in abundance; I mean, 120 to 180 gallons of wine is a lot of wine. I must note, here that, while for us today we see wine can have a dark side that people sometimes must struggle with, the people first receiving John’s gospel drew upon many images from the Old Testament and from their culture of wine as the sign of rich, abundant new life. And so, the miracle here is not simply that water was turned into wine, but that Jesus takes old, solid, good things that stood empty and waiting and makes them into the bearers of new life, and new life in abundance. What a guest!

And so, what about us? Is there new life to be seen here in this old building, in this solid community of people, in the midst of good things created for purposes of perhaps times past? Well, is that not what we’ve already seen? Have we not seen the Spirit, the continuing presence of Christ, in the creation of our unique Congregationalist and United Church of Christ traditions out of a past that wasn’t working anymore? Do we not know of the Spirit calling out to the church to open itself to women and gay people and persons of color—and seen ourselves rise to that purpose? Have we not heard of the Spirit calling to out to a congregation to open its doors to it’s community and provide a safe place for neighborhood children to gather (that would be us, you know)? The story goes that St. Jerome, the early church father who translated the Bible into Latin, was once asked whether all of that wine got consumed at the wedding feast. His response? “We are drinking from it still.” Indeed, right here, in the story of this denomination and this congregation, the festive drink of new life has flowed abundantly.

The Spirit still calls to us today, asking this old stone jar to be re-dedicated to bear the fruits of new life. And like the apostle Paul looking upon the church in Corinth, I look out among us and see a treasury of gifts to be used in the service of this task. Wisdom, knowledge, faith, healing, prophesy, discernment, even miracles—these gifts are here, among you—each of us having been given something by the Spirit. In Corinth, there was an ongoing debate over which gifts were the best, and Paul wrote to tell them, ‘No, even those gifts that some of you seem to think are least important—all of them are gifts of the Spirit, and thus all of you have something to offer in the service of God.’ All of you. All of you.

Having been so abundantly gifted by God’s Holy Spirit, we cannot help but be standing ready for Christ to be the guest among us, transforming us to new purpose, calling upon us to bear new life ever again. But wait, there is something more that happened at the wedding feast that day. Remember that chief steward? What was it that he said? Oh, yeah—at this wedding, the best wine had been saved for last. What makes us think that it will not be so with the new life that we shall bear, too?

BLESSING AND HONOR, GLORY AND POWER BE UNTO GOD, NOW AND FOREVER. AMEN.

Sermon ©2007, Matthew C. Emery. All Rights Reserved.

"Through the Waters" - A Sermon for the Baptism of Christ, Year C

“Through the Waters”

A Sermon for the Baptism of Christ, RCL Year C
Isaiah 43:1-7 & Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

By The Rev. Matthew Emery
Preached at Second Congregational United Church of Christ, Rockford, IL
January 7, 2007


I don’t think Phil was very happy with me. When I finally happened to see him yesterday--after probably more than three weeks of no contact--he was looking a little down... Not at all perky... The zest of life zapped right out of him. No words were exchanged in our brief little encounter yesterday, but none were needed. After all, Phil’s appearance alone said it all: “look at me... when you forget to give me water for this long, what do you expect a little guy like me to do but turn all wilt-y and brown?”

Of course, “Phil” is my houseplant, a philodendron that I’ve owned for not quite two years now. And, I must confess that I am not very good about keeping him watered. Maybe it’s because he sits off in an area of my apartment that I don’t necessarily walk by every day. Maybe if I had more houseplants--something I’ve thought about, as I think they would make a nice addition to my apartment--maybe if I had more than just one, then I’d be more likely to think about it. Maybe if I kept some sort of watering can out on my kitchen counter, maybe that might remind me.

Well, anyway... Observations about my houseplant gardening skills aside, what happens when we forget about the water? Now, I think it wouldn’t be too likely for us here in this building to forget about water. I mean, in just the four-and-a-half months I have been here, we’ve had a pipe burst that flooded our dining room and a roof leak here in the sanctuary that damaged part of our pipe organ. So there’s been water to think about a plenty.

But, then again, I wouldn’t think that the Israelites would forget about the waters either--the people who God led out of Egypt and through the waters of the Red Sea, God’s chosen people whose promised land lay across the Jordan River. Surely they wouldn’t forget about their journey through the waters and covenant God made in carrying them through. But, years later, we hear The Prophet preaching to them after they had forsaken that covenant. The new life they were given as they passed through the waters now stands withered away, brown leaves on dead branches.

But The Prophet proclaims the promise, God’s vow offered anew. ‘Cross the rivers, and I will be with you. Wade through the waters again, and I will raise you up. You may not know whether they are the floods of trial and terror or the pathway to freedom, but do not fear, for I have redeemed you.’ So The Prophet reminds the Israelites in exile of the message that the waters carried all along: ‘new life’, ‘the promise of the covenant’, ‘you belong to God.’

[pause (slight)]

Even with our recent overabundance of water flowing around this building, I believe that ultimately we too need reminding of the waters. We need to taste the cool sip of a refreshing drink in the desert heat. We need to feel the strange tingle of droplets, like that fine mist on a spring morning, like that touch that the baby coo-s at when the pastor’s wet hand comes near. We need to remember how good it is to wash ourselves off, to watch the sweat and muck of our lives disappear down the drain.

We need to remember that in the end the waters don’t depend on us. The faucet will pour forth water no matter who it is turning the spigot. The rain will come no matter how dirty or clean your car is. Even the prisoner--or perhaps especially the prisoner--is given water to drink. Are you old? These waters have washed over you. Are you young? In these waters, you too have passed through the river to the promised land. Are you rich? Are you poor? Are you white? Are you black or Latino or an immigrant? Are you gay? Are you straight? Are you a pastor? Are you a lay person? Are you differently-abled? Guess what--it doesn’t matter, the promise still calls out from the waters, for you too are baptized.

But there is something more here. We remember the waters, yes. But we also remember who is in the water with us. Glistening wet, hair dripping onto the sand, we find Jesus, right along side us and all the people. We remember and tell again this story from Luke, the account of Jesus being baptized, not only because we need to remember the waters, because we want to recall the fact that we are baptized. No, rather we tell the story--this story--of the One who wades into the water with us. John the Baptist warns of one who comes with power and might, Spirit and fire, and instead we find Jesus joining the ranks of the sinners who have come in repentance. The one who is supposed to come as our judge is the one who joins with us in our journey through the Jordan.

This is the “dirty little secret” that we have to share with the world. Jesus has stood beside us and all the people. When we pass through the waters, God will be with us. The Beloved One has chosen us. All humanity belongs to God, the One who calls us by name and loves us. And over this river of living water, the voice of God’s promise still rains down from heaven.
So, I think it’s a good thing we have this ‘watering can’ right here, so we don’t forget about the water.

BLESSING AND HONOR, GLORY AND POWER BE UNTO GOD, NOW AND FOREVER. AMEN.

Sermon Copyright © 2007, Matthew C. Emery. All rights reserved.