Day of Midian?

I can’t say with 100% certainty, but I’m like hand sanitizer and 99.9% certain that no preacher wants to tackle Isaiah 9 on Christmas.  We’re so focused on the birth of the Messiah and the conflation of the Synoptic stories to worry at all about what boarders on a supercessionist shoe-horning of Isaiah’s oracle for Hezekiah’s reign into a prophecy of the birth of Jesus.  The odds are pretty good that one the congregation hears “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light” on Christmas Eve, their imaginations are already in the shepherd’s fields waiting the heavenly chorus.  Knowing this, the RCL didn’t let us off the hook by simply hiding Isaiah 9 on the Feast of the Nativity.  Instead, it makes a triumphant reappearance here on the Third Sunday after the Epiphany in Year A.

While the common reading of this text as a precursor to the coming of the Messiah seems so easy and feels pretty good, I couldn’t help but get caught up on this image of the yoke of oppression being broken “as on the day of Midian.”  I’ve heard these words for 40 years, but have never given any real thought as to what that that reference was about.  Until today.  Today, for whatever reason, the day of Midian grabbed my attention.  Funny how scripture does that.

According to my HarperCollins Study Bible, Isaiah was references a story recounted in the Book of Judges.  Before we get there, however, it behooves us to learn who Midian was.  The son of Abraham by Keturah, Midian and his brothers have a story similar to Ishmael.  As the children of a wife/concubine, Midian and his siblings were left very little when Abraham died.  His family was left to wander as nomads, left without a home.  Over time, the descendants of Midian grew in number and eventually became a great tribe, and when the Lord God needed to punish Israel for their worship of false gods, the Lord used the Midianites to oppress the people of Israel.   Judges 6-8 tells the story of the Midianite oppression and Gideon’s army’s conquest and Gideon’s almost instant return to idolatry.

It’s an odd reference, given that the relationship between God and Israel was only good for about half a minute, but when Isaiah uses this image of the rod of oppression being broken as on the day of Midian, it helps remind me that this salvation thing is ongoing work.  My salvation, as well as the salvation of the whole world, is being worked out day by day, as the Holy Spirit leads us into all truth, deeper relationship, and the work of justice and peace.  The great light isn’t something we come to see in fullness in a moment, but is revealed to, epiphany after epiphany, through the course of our lives as disciples.

Hope in the Spirit

As I helped Eliza with her 5th grade math homework this week, I realized two things.  First, they are apparently doing algebra in 5th grade now.  Second, I realized how little math I remember beyond basic addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division.  I never thought I’d forget to “please excuse my dear aunt Sally,” but alas, I’ve replaced it with some very limited basics of Biblical Greek, the Constitution and Canons of the Episcopal Church, and since we had kids, the plot and major characters of every Disney movie ever made.  While I’m only a little bit sorry that I don’t remember much about how to solve for x, I am profoundly grateful to have made all kinds of new memories, to have learned all sorts of new things, and to have a computer with one hundred thousand times more computing power than Apollo 11 in my pocket at all times.

Two of the few things I can recall amidst the fading memories of my seminary days are lessons I learned in my Old Testament class.  Our professor, Dr. Cook, was a fan of the Canonical Method of Old Testament criticism.  This method says that the books of the Hebrew Bible should not be read in isolation.  Verses and Chapters should be read within the wider context of the book from which they come and even whole books themselves should be read with an eye toward how they fit within the larger narrative of Scripture, God’s love story for creation.  Dr. Cook also taught us to pay attention when reading the prophets and to note that any prophecy of destruction would be followed soon-there-after by a promise of some sort of restoration.  It might only be an assurance for a few, but the prophets never left the people of God without some hope for the future.

Somewhere this week, between basic algebra and the Canonical Method, I ran across an article by Casey Thornburgh Sigmon from the Saint Paul School of Theology, who suggests that understanding Isaiah eleven requires looking at the bigger picture.[1]  I was immediately reminded of Dr. Cook’s teaching and began to take a larger look at our Old Testament lesson for this morning.  It begins with a word of hope.  It is the promise of restoration to the people of Israel.  “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse and a branch shall grow out of his roots.” If it is true that the prophets never offer judgment without hope, then we can reasonably assume that a word of future hope is rarely offered in isolation from past devastation.  Turning back to Isaiah chapter ten, we see the tail-end of a long prophetic oracle on the impending destruction of the Northern Kingdom of Judah.  In her article Professor Sigmon notes that in order to understand this image of the stump of Jesse we first have to see how the end of the Assyrian army is promised by way of some very woodsy imagery.  “The Sovereign, the Lord of hosts, will lop the boughs with terrifying power: the tallest trees will be cut down, and the lofty will be brought low.  The Lord will hack down the thickets of the forest with an ax, and Lebanon with its majestic trees will fall.”  Chapter ten ends with forest felled completely.  All that is left are stumps as far as the eye can see.  The trees of Judah destroyed by the Assyrians.  The trees of Assyria destroyed by the power of God.  It is a barren wasteland, stark as the bleakness of mid-winter.

As we turn to chapter eleven, suddenly, hope springs forth from hopelessness.  From a stump that is as good as dead, we see the tiniest shoot breaking forth, reaching toward the sun.  In the midst of the reign of the destructive, idolatrous King Ahaz, Isaiah looks forward in hope by hearkening back to the ideal model of kingship for the Israelites, King David.  Yet, even with David in his sights, the prophet is careful to avoid the language of any sort of human monarch, but rather builds this future redemption exclusively upon the power of God to restore all things.  The leader who will bring forth life from the stump that was left after the destruction of Judah must be one who is grounded in the Spirit of God; a spirit of wisdom, understanding, counsel, might, knowledge, and the fear of the Lord.  With these gifts of the Spirit, the leader of this renewed Israel will judge with equity, will care for the needs of the poor, and will strike down the evil with nothing more than a breath.

Over the years, one of the three things that I have filled my head with in the place of algebra is the plot to almost every Disney movie ever made.  In 2016, Disney released a film called Zootopia.  It’s a fantastic film that everyone should watch, no matter their age. It tells the story of a bunny name Judy Hopps who becomes the first rabbit police officer in the city of Zootopia, a city built upon the idea that predators and prey can live together in harmony.  The city slogan is “Anyone can be anything,” but that gets put to the test when predators, who had evolved beyond their ferocious pasts, suddenly find themselves reverting to their “primitive savage ways” for some unexplained reason.  The whole stability of Zootopia becomes threatened by fear and the love of power.  Since seeing that movie in the theatre three years ago, I can’t read Isaiah’s portrayal of the peaceable kingdom – wolf and lamb, leopard and baby goat, calf and lion all living together in harmony – without thinking about the story of Zootopia and how precarious the peace that God promises is, unless it is built upon a foundation of the knowledge of the Lord, the pursuit of justice, and the love of neighbor.

unconsciouscourteousduckling-size_restricted

Heard in the light of King Ahaz and his fondness for self-preservation, worshipping false gods, and entering into treaties with the enemies of God, Isaiah’s vision of a new godly leader for Israel would have been met by hearts filled with joyful expectation.  Reading Isaiah some 2,700 years later and through the lens of our faith in Jesus Christ, it is easy to see how this vision of a restored Israel became a popular one for Christians looking for the promise of a Messiah in the Hebrew Bible.  It is easy to see how this vision of the peaceable kingdom became a popular one for Christians looking toward a hope-filled future after the second coming of Christ.  Even so, we don’t have to read this text as only describing what is possible through the coming of the Messiah or the second-coming of the Christ.  This vision of a future built on peace is possible at every level of society – individual, church, community, nation, and even the world, if we set our hope, as Isaiah would remind us, on the power of the Spirit of God.

While we shouldn’t exclusively read this lesson through the lens of our faith in Christ, as disciples of Jesus, it is our natural tendency to see the promise of the shoot of Jesse’s tree as the promise of the Messiah who we believe to be Jesus of Nazareth.  We believe that in baptism, we receive the gift of the Holy Spirit promised by the prophet.  That same Spirit of God lives within each us, guiding us toward wisdom and understanding, counsel and might, knowledge and the fear of the Lord.  With our eyes fixed on the hope of the holy mountain of God, this Advent season, we join with the beleaguered people of God throughout the generations and search with joyful expectation for the shoot of new life breaking forth from the stump of sin and death.  Like our ancestors in the faith, we don’t wait passively, but rather, with God’s help, we live our lives seeking to be at peace with our neighbors, caring for those live on the margins, working toward justice for all people, and striving for the day of righteousness when we will join with the heavenly chorus and sing out the truth for all creation, “Rejoice! Rejoice!  Emmanuel has come to thee, O Israel!”  Amen.

[1] http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=4316

The Good News – a sermon

People were desperate for some good news.  It was somewhere around the year 540 BC and the people of Israel were exhausted with grief.  For more than forty years they had been in exile in Babylon.  Jerusalem and the Temple of Solomon lay in ruins.  Their home country had been destroyed, and foreigners had been brought in to settle their land.  In Babylon, they served a king who demanded that they worship false gods, and they worked as slaves.  They were hopeless, unable even to lift their instruments to sing the songs of their faith.  They were desperate for some good news when God spoke to the prophet Isaiah and said, “Comfort, O comfort my people.  Speak tenderly to Jerusalem and cry to her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid, that she has received from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins.”  What follows is the good news of Israel’s impending restoration.  Soon, they will be allowed to return to the land promised by God to Abraham and begin rebuilding their lives.

Something happened not long after their return to Israel, however.  For 400 years, the voice of God went silent.  The prophets who had been so prevalent before and during the exile went mute.  The long-awaited restoration was short-lived as outside kingdom after outside kingdom ruled over them.  The people were starving for the Word of God when a man began to preach out in the wilderness.  They were reminded of those words of hope from Isaiah: a promise of restoration that brought with it word of one who was to come, a voice that would come from the wilderness and say, “prepare the way of the Lord!”  A voice that would declare the power of God in the midst of life’s uncertainty.  A voice that would call upon the people to forsake their sins and turn toward God’s will for God’s creation.

After four hundred years of silence, God called John the Baptist into the wilderness to proclaim freedom from bondage and fear.  John’s dress was like that of Elijah, the prophet who was to return ahead of the Messiah, and he called on the people to change their ways.  For the Hebrew people, their occupation by the Romans was a sign of God’s punishment.  In John the Baptist, for the first time in 400 years, the people heard a message of hope for God’s reign to return to their land.  So, they came in droves.  By the hundreds and thousands, they came from Jerusalem and all the surrounding countryside to see the long-awaited prophet who was baptizing them for the forgiveness of their sins and inviting them to prepare their hearts for the one who was to come.  It is there, Mark tells us, that the Good News of Jesus Christ begins.  In the hope-filled promise of God to a people in exile, bondage, and sadness the Gospel of God gets its start.

I don’t want to be overly dramatic, so I won’t say that I am desperate for good news, but I honestly wouldn’t mind hearing some. It’s been a rough few weeks here at Christ Church.  While the rest of the world is rejoicing in the Christmas season, I have been deep in the throes of Advent.  Blue vestments may be a symbol of hope, but blue is also the color of mourning.  Purple candles may remind us of Christ’s royalty, but they also shine bright with a call to repentance.  Twice this week, we lit the Christmas candle all by itself as a replacement for the paschal candle, trying to remember to celebrate resurrection while mourning dear friends who have gone to larger life in God.  It’s been a tough few weeks, and so I’m thankful for the Good News that Mark brings, and I’m especially thankful for the strange way it starts.

I think Mark must have known that people have always and will always need to hear good news, and so he begins his gospel with a very peculiar opening.  It certainly doesn’t start at the beginning.  Luke starts at the beginning, with the Annunciation to Mary that she will bear a child, her Visitation to Elizabeth, and the beautiful birth narrative filled with shepherds watching their flocks by night, angels bringing good news of great joy, and babe, born in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn.  Luke is great at beginnings, and so we read from Luke every Christmas.  Likewise, John’s Gospel starts at THE the beginning. “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.” John takes us to before the beginning where all that existed was God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, to tell the grand story of God’s plan of salvation.  Matthew lands somewhere in the middle.  By giving us Jesus’ genealogy, he places the story within the larger framework of God’s salvation history, while also giving us the familiar stories of Joseph’s dream and the visiting wise men.  Mark, on the other hand, doesn’t start at the beginning.  Mark starts somewhere in the middle.  Mark starts some five hundred years after the Good News of Isaiah, in the wilderness, with a wild preacher named John crying out, “Prepare the way of the Lord.”

I think Mark starts the way it does so that every person can find their place in the story of God.   I think that maybe we are invited to jump into this story with our whole selves, and the only way to really do that is to be thoroughly discombobulated.  In our confusion, we have to spend some time getting our bearings.  Who are these characters?  What is the Isaiah quote telling us?  How does John’s appearance affect the story?  What about this one who is to come?  There won’t be much time to get settled, however.  Mark’s favorite word is immediately.  On forty-two separate occasions, Mark will use it to speed the story along.  This Good News of Jesus Christ the Son of God is too important to spend time lollygagging, it must be told with haste because there is not a soul in the world that does not urgently need to hear the Good News.

Mark frames his story as Good News, euangelion in Greek. The Greek u looks a lot like a v, which makes the jump to evangelism an easy one.  In a world desperate for good news, those of us who have been blessed to find it in our time of need, have no choice but to share it.  There may not be time to start all the way at the beginning.  Like Mark, our version of the Gospel of God may need to begin right were we are.  It may need to root itself somewhere in the middle of God’s ongoing story of redemption and restoration.  It may include strange characters doing strange things.  It might even take a little while to get to Jesus.  The key to evangelism is not getting caught up in how the Good News needs to be told, but rather to whom we should tell it.

People are desperate for some good news.  The world is badly in need of the Good News of Jesus Christ.  As our nation slides deeper and deeper into fear.  As those on the margins feel the edges of society slipping from their grasp.  As members of our community deal with grief, illness, and tough questions.  As we wait for God to come and set us free from our bondage to stress, anxiety, and fear.  We who have heard the Good News of God are expected to share it.  Mark’s strange beginning offers us an entry into the story of God’s salvation.  We are a part of the Good News of God.  We carry the story out into the world, showing God’s love in good deeds and telling God’s love by sharing the cause of our hope.  In every place where people need the Good News, God is there in the person of a disciple of Jesus who carries the Good News in their hearts and on their lips. Anytime the hope-filled promise of God is shared to a people in exile, bondage, or sadness, the Gospel of God gets its start.  As we await the second Advent of Jesus, we are called to be the beginning of the Good News of God’s salvation for someone who needs to hear it.  To whom will you tell your story?  Amen.

Words of Comfort

We have done a lot of damage to the words of the Church.  Evangelism now conjures up images of firey preachers with megaphones, yelling about the damnation of all who disagree with them.  Grace is this cloyingly sweet concept that God’s love for creation means we can do whatever we want, with impunity.  Come to think of it, we’ve done similar damage to the first amendment to the United States Constitution, but I digress.  Perhaps the most violence beset upon a churchy word in 21st century America has been inflicted upon the word prophet.  Both sides, if there is such a thing, have used this word to assert their authority over the other.  On the left, there are plenty of self-proclaimed prophets willing to decry everything the Republican Party says and does.  On the right, similarly self-proclaimed prophets are quick to get up in arms about whatever bleeding heart liberals might be fighting for.  Neither, it would seem, quite have it.

A prophet is never, and can never, be self-proclaimed.  God always appoints the prophets because what makes a prophet isn’t opinions or motives or prognostactive ability.  What makes a prophet a prophet is that they serve as the mouth piece of God.  Sometimes, those words can be harsh.  In today’s Daily Office lesson from Amos, we hear God’s word of judgment and subsequent punishment.  Other times, the word a prophet is called to bring is a word of comfort and hope.  This is the case in the Old Testament Lesson for Advent 2B.  After a period of punishment and exile, the time has come for the fortunes of Israel to be restored.  God, speaking to the angelic council, allows the prophet to overhear this word of salvation and restoration.

Comfort, O comfort my people,
says your God.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
and cry to her
that she has served her term,
that her penalty is paid,
that she has received from the Lord‘s hand
double for all her sins.

Maybe it is the forty-three weeks of apocalyptic parables we’ve heard of late, but I feel ready for a word of hope; a message of comfort.  Perhaps I’m projecting, but I feel like we might all be in need of a prophetic word of consolation.

Every three years, when Isaiah 40 comes around on Advent 2, I’m grateful for its words of comfort and for my friend John Talbert, who took these words, paraphrased in Hymn 67 of our Hymnal, and performed them beautifully.  As the week begins, with two funerals headed our way, you’ll find me listening to John’s version of “Comfort, comfort ye my people” on repeat, giving thanks for a prophetic oracle of consolation and hope.

Comfort, Comfort Ye My People from John Talbert on Vimeo.

 

Named as saints – a sermon

My final sermon at Saint Paul’s is available on the website, or you can read it here.


Some of you may not know this about me, while some of you have experienced it firsthand.  I am terrible with names.  So bad, in fact, that there is a voice inside my head that actively encourages me to steer clear of them whenever possible.  As I’m shaking your hand, giving a hug, or just making eye contact, I can hear it start.  “You think her name is Sue, but you aren’t sure.  You should know her name, but you’ll mess it up and hurt her feelings.  Just don’t do it; just say, ‘Hello dear,’ or something equally pathetically innocuous.”  Being bad at names is really a poor quality in a priest.  Names are powerful.  We feel known when someone calls us by name.  We feel equally unknown when we are called “buddy,” “darling,” or “dude.”  More than that, our names carry meaning in them.  Some carry generations of family history.  For example, after my grandmother died, we found in her genealogy records that my dad, John Pankey, carries the same Americanized name that our ancestor Jean Pantier took when he emigrated from France in the early 18th century.  How cool is that!?!  Other names carry the weight of even more history, names that are imbued with meaning from deep in the past.

In fact, names have carried meaning for thousands of years.  The Old Testament is rife with names with deep meaning.  Even in the very beginning, we get the name Adam for the first man from the Hebrew word which means both “man” and the “dust” from which humankind was created.  His wife, Eve, is named the Hebrew word for “life” because she is the mother of all humanity.  Place names were important as well.  After wrestling all night with God near the Jabbok, which means “emptying,” Jacob (trickster) gets a new name, Israel (God prevails) and he named the place Peniel, which means “the face of God.”  All throughout the Old Testament names do more than simply name people and places, but they fill them with meaning.  Nowhere is this more true than in our lesson from Isaiah this morning.  Here we find ourselves in the middle of the story of King Ahaz who is fearful as he is about to come under attack from the Assyrians.  Isaiah, God’s prophet and mouthpiece, promises that if Ahaz remains faithful to God, he will prevail.  The sign of the promise will be the birth of a baby to a young woman who will be called Immanuel, or God with us.  Ahaz is ultimately unsuccessful; he just can’t keep the faith, and the promised birth of Emmanuel doesn’t happen.

More than seven hundred years later, Matthew interprets the circumstances of the birth of Jesus to his young mother, a virgin named Mary, as the fulfillment of that ancient promise.  The child’s given name is Jesus, which means “God saves;” a name given to both of his parents by an angel of the Lord, but there is no doubt in Matthew’s mind that Jesus is the child promised to Ahaz as the assurance of the final victory of Israel, when God moved into the neighborhood for good.  Emmanuel, God with us, was born to Mary, whose name means both “bitter” and “beloved;” she will experience both in her life, and her betrothed Joseph, whose name means “may God increase.”  What is amazing about this story, seven hundred years after it was supposed to take place, is that once Emmanuel came to be God with us, God never left.  God was with us, God is with us, and God will forever be with us, thanks to the life-giving sacrifice of sending God’s only Son to be born of a virgin and to live and die as one of us.

For roughly two thousand years now, Jesus hasn’t been on earth, and yet, God continues to be with us through the indwelling of the Holy Spirit.  The Spirit keeps Emmanuel in the present, always here to show us the way to the Father, the how-tos of the Kingdom of God.  The Spirit, a lifetime of God with us, is a gift given to every one of us in our baptism.  With deference to the power of names in the Old Testament, the Church has long tied baptism and the gift of Emmanuel with naming.  For hundreds of years, a child was formally named at their baptismal ceremony.  Those who were baptized later in life often changed their name at baptism, giving up the pagan names of their youth for Christian names of discipleship.  Some of you may have a second middle name from a long ago Roman Catholic baptism for the very same reason.  This morning [at 10 o’clock], we welcome Hadley Caroline Wing into the Body of Christ.  I’ve not had a chance to talk with her parents as to why they chose Hadley Caroline, but even if they just thought it was pretty, it still comes with great meaning.  Hadley is an Old English word for a field covered in heather, a gorgeous purple flower.  Caroline is a feminine form of the name Charles which means strong.  May she be a perfect balance of splendor and strength.  She is born to her parents Andrew and Kacey.  Andrew means manly and Kacey is the Gaelic word for watchful or vigilant.  Hadley Caroline, under the care of strong and careful parents, today receives a new name, one that all of us who are baptized into the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ share: saint.

Though names are also important in the New Testament, what with Simon (listener) becoming Peter (rock) and Saul (inquired of God) becomes Paul (humble), what seems to be even more important is our common relationship in Jesus Christ.  Throughout the New Testament, all the disciples of Jesus are referred to again and again as saints.  In Greek, saint is hagios which means “set apart by God, holy one, or consecrated.”  To be saints, then, is first and foremost to acknowledge our total dependence upon God.  Every good work, every possession, even our very breath comes from God.  We are invited into sainthood, it is not earned.  The very act of becoming a saint is the grace-filled gift of God, which is why in the Episcopal Church we baptize infants.  This is the sign for us that none of us are able to work our way into God’s love, but rather it is the gift of a God whose very nature is love and relationship.

In response to the gift of God’s love, and with the help of the Holy Spirit who is always with us, we engage in the work of holiness, which is summed up in the Baptismal Covenant that we will all reaffirm in just a few minutes.  By the power of the Spirit, God with us at work in our lives calls us to live lives worthy of the Gospel; lives of faithful service to God and to each other; lives committed to the restoration of right relationship with God, with one another, and with all of Creation.  Today, on a day that the Scripture lessons are all about names, we welcome Hadley Caroline into the family of saints, and make our vow to labor alongside her in building up the Kingdom of God.

I would be remiss to not mention that today also happens to be my last sermon here at Saint Paul’s.  On a day that is also about sainthood, I give thanks for the saints of this congregation.  You have loved me and allowed me to love you in return.  You have raised me from a baby priest.  You have cared for my family, loved on my children, and supported us in good times and in bad.  I will be forever grateful for our time together as we have sought to learn what it means to be disciples of Jesus and saints of God.  May God bless Hadley Caroline.  May God bless her family.  And may God bless the Saint Paul’s family as you continue working with the Spirit to discern the power of Emmanuel, God in your midst, from this day forth and forever more.  Amen.

Immanuel – God with Us

Thank God for 1980s Amy Grant.  I can’t read the lessons appointed for Advent 4, Year A without immediately hearing those great synthesize riffs.  See, in Year A, Advent 4 is all about the name of Jesus.  Not Yeshua, as his name would be in Aramaic, but the name promised by the Father through Isaiah as the sign for Ahaz of his impending military success.

Some seven hundred years later, Matthew took this yet unfulfilled prophecy and attached it to the birth of Jesus, which followed the model of the original.  Like the prophecy, which told of a child born to a young woman, almah, likely unmarried but of marriage age, Jesus was born to Mary, a young girl, engaged to Joseph but not yet known by him (Biblical euphemism that means they had not yet engaged in intercourse).  Ahaz had failed to live up to God’s intention for him or his kingdom and was, of course, duly punished.  In the intervening years, there had been no fulfillment of the promise, no child born to an almah who would come close to being Immanuel – God with us.

Until that fateful day when Mary and her betrothed saddled up their donkey to travel from Nazareth to Bethlehem because of a taxation census.  Then, according to Matthew’s interpretation, the promise was finally fulfilled, God was born on earth.  God was here.  Or as Eugene Peterson has famously translated John 1, God moved into the neighborhood.

What is amazing about this story, seven hundred years later than it was intended to take place, is that God never left.  Immanuel, more commonly spelled with an E these days, never again went away.  God was with us, God is with us, and God will forever be with us, thanks to the life giving sacrifice of sending God’s only Son to be born of an almah and to live and die as one of us.  As the days continue to get shorter ahead of the winter solstice, this lesson seems vitally important.  The darkness of the season is often matched by the darkness of our hearts and minds.  Depression is common, suicides increase, disappointment seems to be around every corner.  There is much in this season that can make us wonder if God really is still here, but the promise of Isaiah, reinvigorated by Matthew, assures us that in Jesus, God’s Emmanuel, God is here.

Comfort, Comfort ye my people

The Advent/Christmas season is always a tumultuous time.  There are seemingly never ending demands on our time.  There is the grief that comes as we remember those who are no longer with us.  There is the stress of buying the perfect gift and the right price on the right credit card for maximum point accumulation.  There is the December cold and flu season staring down each of us.  And there is, of course, the slow and steady plummet toward the darkest night on December 21st.  What was once a season of hope and joy, has, thanks to our 21st century appetites for consumption, become a season of anxiety and stress.

The readings for the season of Advent could be seen as adding to the problem, and God knows I’ve been critical of them over the years, but this particular year, on this particular day, I’m thankful for the inclusion of Isaiah 40 in the Propers for Advent 2, Year B.  Those opening words of God to the prophet, his command that Isaiah be about the work of comfort is working to ease my discomfort this morning.  I can sense God inviting me into his presence and the peace which surpasses all understanding.  Even the voice crying out in the wilderness is not a voice of judgement to me this year, but a voice of calm.  “Prepare the way of the Lord” in the context of Isaiah 40 is preparation to be enveloped in God’s loving embrace, an invitation to be loved by God whose very nature is love.

I’m thankful for this invitation this year.  And I’m thankful to my friend, John Talbert, for his beautiful take on one of only two Advent hymns I consider worth singing, “Comfort, comfort ye my people.”

Comfort, Comfort Ye My People from John Talbert on Vimeo.