Re-taking the measure of my life (sermon for December 22, 2019)

Reading: Matthew 1:1-25 (sermon for Sun, Dec 22, 2019)

 

I am a carpenter.  My name is Joseph.

I like to create, to make, to build.  Houses and stables, barns and mangers, storage boxes and family treasure chests.  I like to build a life, help create community, in my own way help make the world a good place to be.  Maybe even bit by little bit help build the kingdom of God again in our time.

Now, with that last one you might think I’m getting a little presumptuous. 

But I have to tell you, that’s what all of us good Jews think in one way or another – that all of us every day are created and called by the Almighty One to be partners with him – praise be his name, in the work of making the world good and establishing his kingdom on Earth.

And I guess I also have a more personal reason to think about my life that way.  I am of the house of David, the greatest of our kings.  There is royal blood in my veins.  The future of our people flows through my line.  The messiah who will save us and all the earth will come of my lineage. 

And the way the rabbi counts it, from Abraham our first father to David our greatest king were fourteen generations, from David to the time of the kingdom’s collapse was fourteen generation; and from the time of the collapse to today is now also … yes, fourteen generations.  Which makes me wonder sometimes: is there something special that will come of me, that I am going to help bring into and build up in the world?

I think that’s why I take special care to use only the best in whatever I build, and whatever I do.  I use only the best wood I can find for anything I make.  I do the work as carefully and skillfully as I know how – measure twice, cut once we say.  No shortcuts, no mistakes, no quick fixes, nothing that will compromise the final product.

And the same in my life.  I study to know God’s law as best I can, and pray to follow it completely and to the letter.  I surround myself with good people, am careful about the company I keep.  I keep away from bad people and influences, and keep myself as untainted by sin and unacquainted with evil as I can.  I support the efforts of the rabbis and elders to rid our community and the province of bad people and questionable characters.  I want to be the kind of person and live the kind of life and be part of the kind of people that God can use for something good.

Which is why I was so happy in my engagement to Mary.  I saw her grow up and knew her to be a good person, too.  Family and faith and faithful living were as important to her as to me.  So I was happy when it was decided that I could take her as my wife, and happy when our time of engagement officially began.  We were legally bound to one another – signed, sealed and ready to be delivered as man and wife, looking and planning ahead to our wedding day when our union would be celebrated by the town, consummated by us and we would begin to live together as well.  And who knows what might then come of us – come of me, as the rest of our life and the story of my line unfolded.

All was as it should be, praise be to the Almighty. 

Until the day I got wind of Mary being pregnant.  In my shock at hearing such an evil rumour, wanting to beat the living daylights out of whoever started it.  Then hearing it from Mary herself, spoken through such a combination of sobs and heart-rending anguish about what this meant for us, and such strange assurances that it was all God’s will and God’s doing, that I didn’t know what to think.  Or feel.  Or do.

Although I did know what I had to do.  A carpenter building good things to last and helping to build what God wants this world to be, uses only the best of material.  Discards and doesn’t use the rest.  And Mary – my betrothed, was now tainted and impure.  There was a stain on our engagement and our plans for our life together.  My own hopeful wonderings about my own good purpose in life were nothing but broken shards and fragments that cut and hurt me deeply – made me bleed and cry out inside, each time I thought of them.

The law was clear and offered me two ways ahead.  One, the more ruthless, was to denounce my bride in public and let the chips fall where they may – let her be cast out of the village, excluded from our community, even stoned if need be to save our purity.  The other, more compassionate, was to divorce her quietly, come to an agreement with her family, and get on with our lives as best we could diminished, without and apart from one another.

I chose the latter and was prepared to go see her father about it the next day.  Until that night … when I had a dream and a visitation from an angel of the Almighty One.  And the angel told me not to be afraid to take and live with Mary as my wife, and to build the life together we had talked about even now.  For the child is of God, the angel said.  And your greatest hopes were not wrong; he is and he will be, by the gracious working of God, the one to save the people from their sins and make the world good.

Measure twice, cut once. 

That dream made me stop and re-think what I thought was the good thing to do, the way to be part of the building of God’s kingdom in the world.  That dream and that vision of God as one who is at work even in the worst situations and through the most broken and compromised of people, made me look at things anew – made me take a second measure of Mary, of our engagement, and of my own life and life’s purpose. 

And you know, I realized later I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Because when I looked again at the lineage I was so proud of – the holy line of David that I was so aware of being part of, I noticed something I had not really paid attention to before. 

Maybe you noticed it yourself.  The odd thing about some of the links in that chain.  For one thing, not all of the kings – not all of the men in that line of succession were good or faithful.  Some were terrible kings.  But somehow they are still part of what God uses for good.

But even more than that.  Did you notice the women who are mentioned?  When are women ever included in tracing a family’s heritage and blood line?  Yet, there they are – Tamar, Rahab, Ruth and Bathsheba. 

And if you know the stories – of incestuous rape, a prostitute traitor in time of war, a seductress -- such broken and questionable women – and some of them foreign women bringing who knows what into our family.  Not the kind of women you would want your son to marry.  Or have as your daughter-in-law.  Or as a partner in God’s work in the world.

But there they are.  And here Mary and I are too in the line of David.  Broken and doubtful about ourselves, disgraced and doubted in the eyes of others.  Part of the holy lineage of God’s people in the world.  Part of the people and the family that God uses for good in the world, no matter how broken, despairing or afraid we may be of the way our life seems to be at the moment.

The promise is, God is with us.  And uses us for good -- the good of God, of others, and ultimately of our selves, as we are.

An Advent Tale

 
I wonder, how was the first Sunday of Advent for you?  Was there anything Advent-ish or sacred in it for you?  Did you find yourself drawn maybe a step or two further into the holy spirit and attitude of Advent?

Advent is odd.  Like many church words it comes from Latin (not exactly our mother tongue) and it means “coming” or “coming to” (but with a different idea of how God comes to us, and we come to God, than our culture and sometimes even our religion supposes).  Traditional practice of Advent is also a bit at odds with our culture – or vice versa, like our plans and the weather on Sunday were at odds.

The choir was to present an International Advent Hymn Festival – a multi-cultured, even variously-tongued offering of praise to God for the coming of Jesus.  A really wonderful thing.  But when high winds, rain and ice made travel treacherous our best plans and hopes for the day were quickly undone.

To me the decision to cancel came as both disappointment and relief.  And to Japhia and I as the decision was made en route via (hands-free) phone calls and I turned the car around on Ottawa Street to head home instead of into Winona and the worst of the storm, we felt both anxiety and gratitude. 

Q:      What did you feel when you decided not to go to church Sunday morning or when you heard worship was cancelled, and knew you would be storm-bound?  Why did you feel what you did? 

For us the relief and the gratitude were about having unplanned time together at home, free of outside obligation.   A kind of home-and-family Sabbath.

But then no more than a half-hour into it, just as we were settling into the luxury of the day the lights shut off, the stereo stopped, the clocks went dark, and the furnace stopped sending warm air through the house.

The power grid we are on was down.  And the strangest thing was that to the south starting with the street right next to ours all the lights were still on, while on our street and streets to the north everything was down.  If only we had friends on the next street over, we would have felt a lot less alone.

But the house was suddenly darker than seemed right and we could feel the temperature already going down.  Within minutes we learned candles cast only so much light against winter storm-gloom.  And give off no real heat beyond a few inches from the flame.  We began to feel the situation we were in. 

Q:      Can you remember a time when something suddenly changed for the worse in your life (maybe even just in yours alone), and you felt immediately powerless and vulnerable? At the mercy of forces beyond your control, and your own resources sadly lacking? 

But good news!  We heard that power would be restored by 2:30 or 3.  With an end in sight and a promise of imminent salvation we decided around 1 to snuggle in under the duvet, and sleep our way through to the return of power.

On one level it worked.  We woke around 4.

On another it didn’t.  The power was still off and the house was only darker and colder.

That’s when the anxiety began to surface.  Concerns about doing rounds of meds in the dark.  About the battery of the feeding pump, if it were needed, not lasting through the night.  About the unaccustomed cold compounding the natural anxiety of unfamiliar darkness.

The plan – Plan B (or was it Plan C or D by this time?) was to drive over to Japhia’s sister’s house just five minutes away.  Who doesn’t appreciate a refuge and a saviour at times?  All day she’d not been answering her phone, but we hoped she was home nonetheless.

When we got there, though, she wasn’t.  All day we’d been phoning, and now we saw we had pinned our hopes on a dark, empty house. 

Q:      Does this situation describe what you, or someone you know, has sometimes felt about God, or faith, or prayer, or the promise of either your own or the world’s healing? 

One thought was just to go home and have tuna fish sandwiches in the dark.  Another – Plan C (or D or E?) was to drive to Fortinos where we knew it would be warm and light, have hot soup and a sandwich, and figure things out.  The soup and sandwich were good, and the plan we came up with (Plan … you get the point) as we talked about it in our unexpected refuge was to drive in the car (warm) through the city (mostly still with power), visit old haunts, see the lights, and remind ourselves there still was a bigger picture beyond and around our present distress.

We drove for a couple of hours.  Sam Lawrence Park was one place, so we could overlook the lights of the city like we used to.  When we got there it was far too foggy; we could see nothing.  But there was actually something warm and comforting about the fog.  A cloud of unknowing – a knowing of only partial seeing, can be more welcoming and helpful than the all-or-nothing choice of full power or no power and all-lights-on or all-lights-off that until then we felt were the only options.

We also drove through old neighbourhoods and places we used to frequent.  Stories, some not thought about for years, were recounted.  Memories were sparked.  We had a good time remembering, and in some way once again becoming, who we had been long ago.

Somewhere along the way we found out that 9 or 10 was now the promised time for the lights to be on again.  By about 7, though, we had nowhere else to drive.  So we somewhat gingerly began to make our way back home.

Finally we were in what we thought was part of our grid, and street lights were on.  We saw light shining out from house windows.  Still a few streets away from our house, though, we were afraid to jinx it.

Half a block from our house, though, I couldn’t help saying quietly, “The lights are on.”

“Don’t get my hopes up,” Japhia said.

A few seconds later, still tentatively, “The lights are on.”

“Don’t get my hopes up.”

As we rounded the bend on Witherspoon, I saw it.  “Our back kitchen light is on!” 

“Thank you, Jesus!” 

Q:      Assuming that “Thank you, Jesus!” was not just a figure of speech or a meaningless exclamation, but a heartfelt recognition and reverence of the good will and grace of God somehow being known by us in the unfolding of our journey through the night, how did it come to be unfolded for us?  How were we opened – or maybe unfolded, to it?

And what about you, when have you been moved recently to say honestly and deeply, “Thank you, God” for something in your life?  What does it take to get to that place? 

The house when we walked in, was well-lit, warm and welcoming.  We were happy.  Shed our coats and boots.  Checked the phone for messages.  Poured a glass of wine.  Settled into the living room.  Slid a disc into the CD player.  “Songs of Joy & Peace” by Yo-Yo Ma & Friends. 

 We listened to Yo-Yo Ma playing “Dona Nobis Pacem.”  James Taylor singing “Here Comes the Sun.”  Dave and Matt Brubeck playing “Concordia,” a re-imagined 12^th-century Gregorian chant.  Renee Fleming singing “Touch the Hand of Love.”  Wu Tong, a vocalist in China, signing “Kuai Le” (meaning “Joy”) to the accompaniment of the Silk Road Ensemble.  Amelia Zirin-Brown singing a deep-down, soul-shaking, heaven-reaching arrangement of “This Little Light of Mine.”

Somehow in ways we never planned, could never have imagined, and could only accept and embrace and follow step- by-step as best we could together, we ended the day with exactly the multi-cultured, even variously-tongued offering of praise to God for the coming of the light into our darkness that the beginning of the day seemed to have denied us. 

Q:      If Advent is an unplanned journey, what do you need to make it a good one?