Sermon: With Authority

First Presbyterian Church

January 28, 2024, Epiphany 4B

Mark 1:21-28

 

With Authority

 

In academic circles there is a humor piece that makes the rounds on occasion, with a title like “Why God would never get tenure” or something similar.  What follows is a list of reasons that, while humorously slanted, could be seen through squinted eyes as more or less academically correct descriptions of events in the history of the church or the Bible.  For example, in publication-crazed academia, everyone would recognize the failure reflected in the first reason on the list: “He only had one publication.”  Even I had more than that.

Other reasons on the list include (in reference to that “one publication”) “it was in Hebrew,” “it wasn’t published in a refereed journal,” and “some even doubt he wrote it himself.”  Other more general jokes on the list include “the scientific community has had a hard time duplicating his results,” “some say he had his son teach the class,” and “although there were only 10 requirements, most students failed the tests.”  You get the idea.

One of those jokes, though, actually resonates with today’s gospel reading, just a little bit.  Of the “one publication” the critique observes that it “had no references,” or more clearly, “no footnotes.”  

If you remember your own degree-seeking days, or if you’ve lived the academic life to any degree, you understand about things like footnotes and a bibliography, or a “works cited” or “works consulted” list – a means by which someone writing an academic paper acknowledges the sources that fed his or her research, those scholars whose previous work made the current work possible.  That kind of acknowledgment isn’t completely different from the kind of teaching that was typical of rabbinical scholars or teachers in Jesus’s time.  The scholar, addressing a particular text, would carefully develop an argument from the studies done by scholars before him, carefully balancing the work of one scholar against the commentary of another, weighing distinct views against one another, and carefully acknowledging and crediting those scholars whose work he uses.  A modern scholar uses those footnotes and bibliographies to perform much the same function.

Keep this in mind when approaching the story in Mark’s gospel for today.  In this case Jesus has the opportunity to speak in the local synagogue in Capernaeum.  This was not unusual.  A teacher did not necessarily have to be a synagogue official to be invited to speak in the service.  What Jesus did with that opportunity, though, aroused plenty of attention.  

We are not privy to the specifics of what Jesus was teaching here.  Mark is not interested in our knowing this, for whatever reason.  What he wants us to know is that Jesus’s listeners were quick to know that his teaching was different, and dramatically, surprisingly so.  Jesus wasn’t using the verbal footnotes common to the scribal tradition; his teaching was, as the text puts it, “with authority!”

Somehow Jesus was teaching in a way that didn’t involve all those meticulous cross-references.  He taught “with authority.”  He taught as the One – the only One – who did not need to cite and cross-reference and footnote.  He taught not just as one “with authority,” but indeed as authority himself.  

What happens next in the story often steals the thunder here, distracting attention from what Mark presents first.  One thing to watch in this gospel is how often Mark uses the word “immediately," or some equivalent.  He's used it already several times in this chapter, and he uses it more than we see here.  In the NIV verse 23 is translated as beginning “just then,” but in the Greek it’s the same word – εὐθύς – that elsewhere is translated “immediately.”  “Immediately” there was in the synagogue a man with an unclean spirit, and he cried out… .  This isn’t a crazed uncontrollable person, as will show up in chapter five, wandering about the tombs and ranting and raving. This is a man sitting in the synagogue listening to Jesus teaching, with the “unclean spirit” within unable to bear the presence of Jesus.  The most striking thing about this scene is that while the many in the synagogue might have marveled at the authority of Jesus’s teaching, only this unclean spirit truly grasped just what that teaching, and that authority, meant.

It meant that “the usual” was no longer enough.  It meant that “the way things are” was no longer acceptable.  It meant that those things that destroy from within, those things that hold us prisoner or keep us in thrall to what corrodes and corrupts us, those things are no longer in charge.  

In fact, this miracle – the best thing to call it, even as uncomfortable as it makes us – actually takes us back a few verses, to the proclamation found in verse 15: 

The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.

 

This miracle – but more so, this authority, this teaching that is like no other teaching that anyone has heard – is indeed a sign of the kingdom of God come near.  That demons (or unclean spirits, or any of those things that would enslave and break human beings) cannot stand in the presence of Jesus, is indeed a sign of the kingdom of God come near.  

But notice something else about this scripture.  Aside from the man with the unclean spirit, how do the people in the synagogue react to what happens?  What is their reaction to Jesus’s teaching, or to the silencing and casting out of the unclean spirit?  Let’s go looking for adjectives and verbs here to see just what Mark is saying.

Well, the NRSV translation gives us “amazed” in verse 22 to describe the people’s reaction to Jesus’s teaching “with authority.”  By verse 27, they are all “amazed,” and chattering to one another.  Finally in verse 28 we find out that Jesus’s fame begins to spread all through Galilee, which at least suggests that those who heard and saw went out and told others what they heard and saw.

These are certainly evocative words that make it clear people are impressed in some way. But it seems there is something missing in them.  

Where is the rejoicing?  Where are the “hosanna”s or the “alleluia”s?  People are amazed and astounded, but are they glad?

This points to something we might want to take with us from this passage.  Again reaching back to verse 15, Jesus comes proclaiming that “the time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near.  Repent, and believe in the good news.”  We say that the church is commissioned to proclaim the “gospel,” the “good news.”  Taken by itself that sounds good, but let’s be honest; there aren’t many people who like the sound of repentance.  It makes a demand on us.  It says things aren’t just perfectly fine and hunky-dory the way we are.  It says things have to change – no, it says things are going to change.  And that’s a little scary, for a church in a transitional time, or maybe even more so for a nice stable thriving church. And if it scares us, why should we think that those outside the church are going to be particularly comforted by it? This whole coming near of the kingdom of God upsets the established order of things, and that’s not something that everyone welcomes.

The second point has to do with that “authority,” and it might be a particularly appropriate lesson for this day in which our church installs deacons and also elders to the session.  Some scholars have observed of this story that readers through the ages have made a mistake in interpreting the reference to Jesus’s authority as a slight or criticism against the teaching of the scribes of the temple.  No.  That can’t be the point we take away from this story.  How could the scribes do otherwise?  They are but human beings.  Jesus’s authority was bound to be different because of who he was. The very first verse of this gospel tells it straightaway: “the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”  The scribes could not possibly teach or advise or govern with that kind of authority any more than a contemporary academic or student can get away without citing their sources in their next paper.

And neither can we.  This is a lesson to remember for me, in my own ordination and vocation, as well as for those who are installed as deacons or elders today, and for those who are already serving, and for those who may serve in the future.  The authority of the deacons or session – indeed the authority of the church itself - rests in Christ alone.  It doesn’t come in titles or rituals or majority votes.  To the degree we claim authority in anything outside the head of the church, which is Jesus Christ – certainly to the degree we claim authority to rest in our own position or title – we are not followers of Jesus Christ.

This is the kind of thing that ought to speak with particular force to this church in this time, seeking the path forward with new pastoral leadership. This is the kind of thing that hopefully prompts us to get involved in that process, remembering that we are not seeking a new "boss"; we seek someone who knows who the "boss" is and acts accordingly.

To the degree we immerse ourselves in seeking the guidance of the Holy Spirit, we involve ourselves in studying and meditating upon scripture, we open our eyes to see where Christ would lead us to minister and to reach out both within this church and outside these walls in the community and world around us, then the coming near of the kingdom of God is good news indeed.  When we are grounded in the authority of Jesus, the Son of God, we are ready to hear and to follow where Jesus leads, to live as Jesus has already shown us how to live.  And then we are ready to be witnesses to what really is good news indeed.

For authority that will never be ours, Thanks be to God.  Amen.

 

Hymns (from Glory to God: The Presbyterian Hymnal); #15, All Creatures of Our God and King; #755, Alleluia! Laud and Blessing; #12, Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise

 

Sermon: The Heavens Torn Apart

Grace Presbyterian Church

January 7, 2024, Baptism of the Lord B

Genesis 1:1-5; Mark 1:4-5, 9-11

 

The Heavens Torn Apart

 

 

Does anything about this story from Mark sound familiar?

In truth there are several passages that might evoke something familiar from the Old Testament, or scripture we just heard during the season of Advent in particular. John the Baptist gets his own Sunday in Advent, and his wilderness-chic wardrobe might have touched off sparks of recognition. Maybe the image of the dove descending brought back memories of, say, the story of Noah’s Ark, and the dove that finally returned, letting Noah know that dry land was on its way.

In this case, though, I have in mind a particular image, found in a particular scripture from Isaiah that actually got preached about a month ago. Maybe it sounds just a little bit familiar? From the very beginning of Isaiah 64… 

“Oh, that you would tear open the heavens and come down…”

And there in today’s reading, verse 10:

“And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him.”

Honestly, it’s hard to believe Mark didn’t do that deliberately.

Of course, Isaiah had a much bigger display in mind. You might remember that the prophet spoke of mountains shaking, fire causing water to boil, enemies trembling, that kind of stuff. And of course, in Isaiah’s prophetic wish, the heavens-being-torn-open act was meant for all to see. Everybody was meant to be impressed and “scared straight,” so to speak, turning away from sin and rebellion to obedience to God.

That’s not quite how Mark’s account goes. In this case it seems Jesus is the only one who sees the heavens torn apart. Other gospels record the scene differently, but here the vision was apparently meant for Jesus alone. And of course, the Spirit “descending like a dove” probably wasn’t the follow-up Isaiah had in mind. Screaming like a hawk, perhaps, but a dove? Too peaceful-sounding, although doves actually don't sound all that peaceful if you catch them right.

Nonetheless, even this scene should give us pause. This was not a “safe” act for Jesus. Directly after this baptism Jesus would be driven out into the wilderness, to face temptation at the hands of the tempter himself (although we won't get to that reading until Lent). The course of Jesus’s ministry on earth was never going to be smooth, and Mark manages to make that clear just from this one image. “The heavens torn apart…”

In fact, this kind of imagery isn’t something Mark overdoes. The Greek word used here only appears one other time in this gospel, at the other end of it. In Mark 15:38, as Jesus hangs on the cross and dies, at that moment (we are told) that the curtain of the Temple was “torn in two.” The disruptive image of being “torn apart” returns at the end of Jesus’s ministry as it had appeared at its beginning.

Let’s be honest, it’s hard for us to think of baptism in this way. Nowadays, particularly in church traditions like ours, baptism often gets made “cute.” We have this cute little bowl of water, a child is baptized wearing a specially made and very cute baptism garment in many cases, … it’s just not the kind of picture that lends itself to images of the heavens torn apart. 

And yet, if we’re doing it right, this baptism can lead us places we don’t expect to go. If you’re lucky, it leads you to something manageable, like being ordained and then installed as an elder on your church’s session. Maybe even on the church's transition team.  And sometimes even a form of service like that can feel a little bit as though the heavens are least being ripped a little bit.

You might find yourself being led into far riskier and more challenging forms of service, whether it be in a pulpit or a mission field. You might find yourself put in a position of having to speak unpleasant truths among people who don’t want to hear them. You might find yourself, in the words of the PC(USA)’s A Brief Statement of Faith, called to “unmask idols in church and culture,” which never seems to go well for the one doing the unmasking. You might find yourself challenged to walk away from the comfortable and profitable, towards the challenging and impoverished to whom Jesus ministered. There’s no telling where that baptism might lead you. 

But baptism does come with its promises as well. You won’t find yourself abandoned. As a popular saying went in my younger days, “If you think God’s far away, guess who moved?” You won’t be left defenseless in the stormy and difficult times. You won’t be given up for lost or forsaken – not because baptism is some kind of magic talisman, but because the Jesus who took on baptism himself is faithful and unwilling to give us up, the ones whom he gave so much to redeem.

Remembering our baptism is obviously not meant to be a literal remembering for most of us; if you were baptized as an infant you are not expected to "remember" what happened on that occasion.  "Remembering our baptism," if anything, is about our need to remember the vows that were made for us, perhaps, and reaffirmed in our confirmation, or that we made ourselves if we were baptized as youth or adults. These things did not happen in isolation, but in the body of Christ represented by the church where that baptism took place. Parents who brought you forward before the congregation, trusting the pastor not to drop you or get water in your little baby eyes, the elder who spoke the words of the rite on behalf of that congregation, the pastor who performed the act "in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit"; we can remember that the baptism we experienced was done with and in the body of Christ, and marked us as belonging to that body. 

In either case, be aware that even now, your baptism may lead you somewhere you never expected, even if the heavens aren’t torn apart.

For the unexpected path from the baptismal font, Thanks be to God. Amen.

 

Hymns (from Glory to God: The Presbyterian Hymnal); #408, There's a Sweet, Sweet Spirit; #482, Baptized in Water; #480, Take Me to the Water

Sermon: All the World

First Presbyterian Church

January 6, 2024, Epiphany B

Matthew 2:1-12

 

All the World

 

 

I am working on a basic presumption this morning. I am assuming that no one in this congregation this morning has any ancestry that traces its roots back to first-century Judea. This is actually somewhat significant for a reason. While the Christmas story as is told in the gospel of Luke is the one that everybody knows, the one that is the basis for every Christmas pageant ever, and the one that Linus recites when Charlie Brown pleads for anyone to tell him what Christmas is all about, it is Matthew's account in the first two chapters of his gospel that takes the boundaries of this story beyond the boundaries of first-century Judea, a province of the Roman state called Palestine.

The world outside Judea enters into this story thanks to the Magi, represented by the three figures in this nativity who are adorned rather differently than the rest of this cast. Of course, we see from Matthew's account that these Magi did not, in fact, come to any stable; verse 11 makes clear that when they arrived, they entered a house, their own house as far as we know, with no mention of mangers or stables or any other such thing. Matthew's story needs to be understood on its own every now and then, not wedged into Luke's very different story.

These Magi, however many of them there were (again, there were three gifts but that doesn't necessarily mean there were three Magi bearing them), make a very long trip from somewhere in the east to get to Judea. Most scholarship reckons that they came either from Persia (modern-day Iran) or Babylon (modern-day Iraq), which gives you an idea of the length of this trip they made with nothing but their camels or their own feet. 

And about those gifts...

It has become something of a modern joke to mock the inappropriateness of these gifts for giving to a mother caring for a small child. Since we don't know how old Jesus was by the time the Magi got there, it would have been hard to know exactly what the child, maybe anywhere from infant to age two, would need. More to the point, though, is that these Magi first went to Jerusalem for a reason. 

Since they saw a sign in the stars that provoked them to go search for a child born "king of the Jews," but had nothing else to work with (remember, there weren't any angels giving them instructions), the only obvious place for them to seek s newborn king would have been a royal court. However weird gifts of frankincense and myrrh might sound to us non-royals (I don't think anybody would refuse a gift of gold), they would be regarded as perfectly appropriate gifts to a royal court, which is where these Magi would have expected to bestow such gifts in a mannered and well-scripted ceremony of exchange across national borders. 

The unexpected chaos at Herod's court sent these Magi off on a different path, with the star they had followed now behaving in very un-star-like fashion and "leading" them to Bethlehem and the house where Mary and Joseph and the child were. Probably they knew darn well, once they arrived, how odd their gifts were going to seem; but perhaps we should allow that those gifts might be overshadowed by what they did when they saw the child; they "bowed down and worshiped him," as Matthew describes in verse 11. These Magi from somewhere back east, not at all subject by human reckoning to a "king of the Jews" present or future, understood enough out of all the confusion they had caused and experienced to know that the only appropriate thing to do before this child was to bow down and worship. We could only hope and pray that we would have been so wise. 

For their reward, the Magi finally got their own angelic dream, warning them to avoid Herod on the way home - an instruction they were probably only too glad to accept. On the other hand, if they had harbored any desire to stay and worship this child further, this angelic instruction made that impossible; they had to get out of the way and not risk bringing any harm to this child. 

For all of this, the challenge for us to remember is that, for all practical purposes, these Magi are us, or at least as close to 'us' as there is in this story. All of those participating in Luke's accout are Judeans, practitioners of Judaism as much as the Holy Family was. 

These Magi come from, and one might argue on behalf of, the world outside Judea and the religion of Judea. They are, in many ways, the first signal that we get in any nativity narrative that the "Gentiles," the term we will commonly see throughout the New Testament for the non-Jewish world, are welcomed to come and worship this newborn king. This young "king of the Jews" turns out to be one who welcomes and calls in all peoples from all places to come and to follow. 

For the Magi and their journey for all the world, Thanks be to God. Amen.

 

Hymns (from Glory to God: The Presbyterian Hymnal unless otherwise indicated): #152, What Star Is This, with Beams So Bright; #147, The First Nowell, v. 3-6 only; #146, Gentle Mary Laid Her Child; #151, We Three Kings of Orient Are; #---, Open our eyes (insert); #150, As With Gladness Men of Old

 

A Service of Lessons and Carols for Epiphany

Note: This order was devised last year for a service for Epiphany, emphasizing the coming of Christ as being for all nations (represented in scripture by the Magi who brought gifts to the child Jesus). Obviously different hymns could also be used for the "carols" of such a service, and there are certainly different scriptures which would also tell that story in the form of "lessons." 

A Service of Lessons and Carols for Epiphany

January 6, 2023

 

Prelude

 

Welcome

 

Opening sentences: 

Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.

Nations shall come to your light, and rulers to the brightness of your rising.

Let us pray: 

Eternal God, by a star you led magi to the worship of your Son. Guide the nations of the earth by your light, that the whole world may see your glory; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.

 

The Lessons: 

 

Lesson 1: Matthew 2:1-12: The Magi travel to behold the child Jesus.

Carol: As with Gladness Men of Old (GtG 150)

 

Lesson 2: Matthew 8:5-13: Jesus heals the servant of a Roman centurion.

Carol: For the Healing of the Nations (GtG #346)

 

Lesson 3: Matthew 28:16-20: Jesus commissions his disciples to go into all the world.

Carol: Go to the World! (GtG #295)

 

Lesson 4: Acts 8:26-39: Philip witnesses to an Ethiopian official.

Carol: Take Me to the Water (GtG #480)

 

Lesson 5: Acts 10:34-48: Peter welcomes the family of Cornelius to be baptized.

Carol: In Christ There Is No East or West (GtG #317)

 

Lesson 6: Acts 16:11-15: Paul is welcomed into the home of Lydia in Philippi.

Carol: Go in Grace and Make Disciples (GtG #296)

 

Lesson 7: Romans 15:7-13: Paul declares his call to bear witness to all peoples.

Carol: Help Us Accept Each Other (GtG #754)

 

Lesson 8: Ephesians 2:11-21: Christ has joined all peoples into one humanity.

Carol: There's a Wideness in God's Mercy (GtG #435)

 

Lesson 9: Revelation 7:9-17: A great multitude from all the nations at God's throne.

Carol: From All That Dwell Below the Skies (GtG #327)

Litany for Epiphany:

 

All the ends of the earth have seen the salvation of our God, Alleluia!

Shout to the Lord, all the earth, Alleluia!

With joy let us pray to our Savior, the Son of God who became one of us, saying: The grace of God be with us all. 

The grace of God be with us all.

 

O Christ, let your gospel shine in every place where the Word of life is not yet received. Draw the whole creation to yourself that your salvation may be known through all the earth.

The grace of God be with us all.

 

O Christ, Savior and Lord, extend your church to every place. Make it a place of welcome for people of every race and tongue.

The grace of God be with us all.

 

O Christ, Ruler of rulers, direct the work and thoughts of the leaders of nations that they may seek justice, and further peace and freedom for all.

The grace of God be with us all.

 

O Christ, Master of all, support of the weak and comfort of the afflicted, strengthen the tempted and raise the fallen. Watch over the lonely and those in danger. Give hope to the despairing and sustain the faith of the persecuted.

The grace of God be with us all. Amen.

 

O Christ, light made manifest as the true light of God, gladden our hearts on the joyful day of your glory; call us by our name on the great Day of your coming; and give us grace to offer,

with all the hosts of heaven, unending praise to God in whom all things find their ending,

now and ever. Amen.

 

Postlude

 

"When the song of the angels is stilled, when the star in the sky is gone,

when the kings and princes are home, when the shepherds are back with their flocks, the work of Christmas begins:


to find the lost, to heal the broken, to feed the hungry, to release the prisoner,


to rebuild the nations, to bring peace among the people,


to make music in the heart."

 

--Howard Thurman

 

Sermon: Unexpected Prophets

First Presbyterian Church

December 31, 2023, Christmas 1B

Luke 2:22-40

 

Unexpected Prophets

 

 

As we gather on this seventh day of Christmas, we are presented with a scripture that takes us to the fortieth day in the life of the infant Jesus. That fortieth day was a significant one for a Jewish baby (particularly a first-born male child) and its mother, as it was a day for the two to be presented in the Temple for the child to be dedicated to the Lord. One might look back to the story of the child Samuel, whose mother Hannah had dedicated her child to the Lord, for a model of how this worked. Presuming that they had stayed in Bethlehem since the birth, the trip to Jerusalem and the Temple was a fortunately brief one for Mary and her husband Joseph.

It's worth noticing that the offering they were named to offer says something about Joseph and Mary. For those who could afford such, the offering meant to be used here was a lamb. The "pair of doves or two young pigeons" were designated specifically for those who couldn't afford a lamb. In other words, Joseph and Mary were poor.

It wasn't unusual for the Temple to be crowded; between such work as what Joseph and Mary had come to do and any number of other small rituals, there was usually a lot going on. This visit, however, turned out to be anything but routine for this new family. 

First appeared a man named Simeon. Luke wants to make sure you know he was a "righteous and devout" man, possessed of a vision that he would not die before seeing the Messiah. He was moved by the Spirit to be at the Temple that day, and presumably that same Spirit pointed out this family to him and to the child in particular as that promised Messiah. He takes the child from the parents (a move that would likely bring an attempted kidnapping charge today) and lifted up his praise to God in words that have become one of the occasional songs of the church even today, like Mary's Magnificat that we heard a couple of weeks ago. (You can find a version of Simeon's song in your hymnal at #545.)

When he had finished his praise, he blessed the couple, but (again presumably moved by the Spirit) had something more to say to Mary, a hard word in this case, both about the fate of this child and also how Mary herself would be affected: "a sword will pierce your own soul too." Here was something that had not happened to this point in Mary's experience with this birth; no such warning had been given by Gabriel or by Elizabeth or anywhere along this way she had traveled. It's hard for us to imagine how such a statement must have hit her.

While Simeon was with the family, another surprise prophet was drawing the whole Temple crowd's attention to them. Unlike Simeon, Anna is definitively named as "a prophet," indicating that this was not new territory in her long life. She had apparently taken to staying in the Temple full-time and not eating, perhaps in her own kind of waiting parallel to Simeon's. By this time the Temple authorities might well have started to consider her a nuisance. While he is speaking to the family, she is proclaiming to all who are passing by, all who "were looking forward to the redemption of Jerusalem." One might argue that this makes Anna "the first evangelist," the first to bear public witness to the Messiah, to speak that news to not just a select few, but to all who were present in the Temple that day. 

It had been forty days since Jesus's birth, and months before that for Mary's encounter with Elizabeth and her own song of what this child was to be, and months before that when Gabriel had first appeared to her. Obviously, a lot had happened in between; the months of pregnancy, the unexpected trip to Bethlehem, the birth itself, and the appearance of those shepherds. Now, after all this, comes this unexpected encounter with prophets while doing their religious duty in the Temple. How much had time dimmed the memory of those initial encounters? And how much was the memory of those encounters stirred up now in this new encounter? 

If Mary, with all she had experienced to this point, could be caught off guard by Simeon and Anna, how much more so are we unprepared for any kind of prophetic word? We live in a time and culture in which "Christmas" starts sometime after Labor Day and ends no later than, say, 2:00 p.m. on December 25; how much are we capable of hearing a word about this Messiah, this Son of God no less, who did not disdain humanity but instead became one of us and lived among us? Can we still hear and hold that message of God breaking into the world as one of us on a day when much of the country is preparing to party mindlessly over the end of one year and the start of another? 

How do we remember to listen to unexpected prophets when they receive a word? (One hint: anyone who calls himself or herself a prophet is virtually never a prophet.) How do we stay ready to receive? How do we stay prepared to discern what the Spirit is doing and where it is leading? 

Perhaps this is our one quest to take with us from this season of Christmas: how to stay ready for the word from unexpected prophets.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

 

Hymns (from Glory to God: The Presbyterian Hymnal unless otherwise indicated): #143, Angels from the Realms of Glory; #121, O Little Town of Bethlehem; #124, Still, Still, Still; #132, Good Christian Friends, Rejoice; #---, What child is this (additional verses); #123, It Came Upon the Midnight Clear; #144, In the Bleak Midwinter; #147, The First Nowell (stanzas 1, 2, and 6 only), #136, Go, Tell It on the Mountain

Confession: I Was Wrong About "A Charlie Brown Christmas"

I was about ten months old when A Charlie Brown Christmas first aired on CBS in December 1965. I can't say for certain that I was propped up in front of the television set for that premiere, but it's entirely possible and maybe even likely.

I would then watch that special every Christmas season, whether it involved clearing that night on my schedule, or pulling out a VHS or DVD, or in the most recent years finding it on the particular streaming service that now holds the broadcast rights to it. I'm not proud; we subscribe to that service mostly (at least from my point of view) for A Charlie Brown Christmas and other Peanuts titles they hold. (OK, so I also watch Major League Soccer matches on that service, and sometimes Ted Lasso.)

This season I've gotten to watch the special three times, and wasted nothing about any of those viewings. I can tell you about how the musical shifts in Vince Guaraldi's score for the show give away so much about what Charlie Brown is going through at different stages of the show. I am always ready for Shermy's one line: "Every year it's the same. I always end up playing a shepherd."  I will tell you which of the lines spoken by any of the characters weren't quite understood by those speaking the parts (clearly the one who voices Lucy's "real estate" line doesn't know what real estate is, and that's exactly as it should be). And yes, I get as choked up as anyone when Linus says "Lights, please" to no apparent character, those lights go dark nonetheless, and Linus begins with the narrative from Luke 2 that he had memorized under threat of physical violence from his sister.

And for all these years, I thought that was the turning point in the show. 

It was certainly the dramatic climax, as unexpected and kind of shocking as it was. Even by 1965, saying or doing something so overtly religious in a network television broadcast was not at all expected or encouraged. You can find a number of sources that will point out how CBS foofs were convinced the show was going to be a disaster, with that very recitation a big part of the reason why. 

Yes, even in 1965 television executives had no idea what they were doing.

So yes, that recitation, with Linus's voice suddenly echoing all around the auditorium, was the dramatic climax of the show, punctuated by his simple statement afterwards, "That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."

Dramatic climax, yes. Turning point? I don't think so, not anymore.

After all, what happens next? Charlie Brown picks up the barely-there Christmas tree, heads for home (skipping at least part of the way,) gets to Snoopy's first-prize doghouse with some lament and then resolution, and finally plucks an ornament off the doghouse, and then tries to attach it to the tree - and in so doing, by his own description, kills it. With great wailing ("everything I touch gets ruined"), he exits to drown in his sorrows once more.

The rest of the gang shows up. Linus, seemingly a day late and a dollar short, decides that the tree isn't so bad, he kinda likes it, and all it needs is "a little love." And then he wraps his blanket around the base of the tree, which somehow is able to stand up straight.

There's your turning point, almost at the very end. Linus wraps his blanket around the base of the tree.

Linus wraps his blanket around the tree.

Already twice in the show Linus has had to defend his blanket against Lucy's machinations to get rid of it. In the final case, as Lucy is yet again ready to commit violence to get her way, Linus somehow whips it into part of his shepherd's costume to thwart her plans. "See? You wouldn't hit an innocent shepherd, would you?" Also, at the very beginning of the show, he has had to hold on to his blanket despite Snoopy's running grab-and-dash. 

Thinking across the broader history of Peanuts, how often does Linus willingly give up his blanket? Not very often at all. Those times when he does he seems to be in critical condition, something like this:

And yet, in this moment, Linus wraps that blanket around the tree seemingly without hesitation, and doesn't appear to pass out over the strain. 

Charlie Brown heard Linus's Luke 2 recitation, but it didn't seem to sink in quite right. In his head it was still about using the tree to do something right. How that tree, alone amidst all those aluminum trees (side query: were aluminum Christmas trees ever a real thing?), had survived all that time, seemingly losing more needles than it actually had every time Charlie Brown picked it up; I have no idea. But still, for all that, CB was still trying to do something for himself; make the tree be the "right" tree for the Christmas pageant.

Whether or not it came of some of that Luke 2 passage sinking in on him, Linus saw what needed to be done for the tree. He wrapped his blanket around it, the rest of the gang stripped Snoopy's doghouse of Christmas paraphernalia, and then came the Miracle of the Fully-Greened Tree. The kids start to hum, CB returns and sees the Miracle of the Fully-Greened Tree for himself, they all sing "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing," and the credits roll.

Charlie Brown tried to use the tree to prove something to the other kids, and it didn't work. Linus gave up his blanket to support the tree (remember, "it just needs a little love") and it lived. 

<puts pastor robe on>

In the end, it isn't just hearing the word, or the Word, that changes things. It's what you do with it that matters. 

[Note: as I write this it's only the fourth day of Christmas. You have time to watch the special at least two or three more times, minimum.]

Sermon: Love.

First Presbyterian Church

December 24, 2023, Advent 4B

Isaiah 7:10-16; Romans 16:25-27; Luke 1:26-38

 

Love.

 

 

One might conclude, after hearing today's scripture readings, that "love" - the presumed theme of this fourth and final Sunday of Advent - seems kind of absent. Between what seems like a tense scene between a prophet and a king, a big flowery elaborate farewell salutation from an epistle, and what must have seemed a terrifying scene of an angel bringing challenging or even terrifying news to a young girl, there isn't much here that suggests "love" as a major part of the story. 

Or is there? 

Isaiah's account comes in a time when the nation had not yet been dragged off into exile, but threats loomed all around. Two of its neighbors had made an alliance with each other, amplifying the threat against the kingdom ruled over by Ahaz. The prophet Isaiah challenges Ahaz to receive a sign from God about what is to come, but Ahaz, for whatever reason, refuses. Of course, that's not going to stop God or God's prophet, so the sign is given. Book-study participants will recognize this one right out of the oratorio Messiah that we've studied this month: "Behold, a virgin shall conceive, and bear a son, and shall call his name Emmanuel: GOD WITH US." 

From there Handel goes off in different directions in his composition, but Isaiah fills in the picture a little more, culminating in the promise that the two kings threatening Ahaz and his people wouldn't even last as long as it takes for the child to learn the difference between good and evil. Even to a stubborn rebellious king like Ahaz, God is acting out of love. 

Now it isn't clear to whom Isaiah is referring when he speaks of the woman who will conceive and bear that son. In some studies of this passage, it is suggested that the woman belongs to Ahaz and the child she will bear will be Ahaz's successor, Hezekiah, who would become one of the most favored kings in the history of Israel/Judah, maybe even second most favored (no one was going to beat King David). Of course, as years continued to pass and the desire for a messiah continued to grow, this passage began to be interpreted as a prophecy of just such a figure coming. From there it was only a small step for Matthew to quote from his gospel this very passage for that very purpose. 

Compared to God loving a recalcitrant king anyway, maybe it seems easier to find "love" in the reading from Luke's gospel, the immediate predecessor to last week's reading. This love, though, is coming in a way that is going to be awfully challenging for the young woman chosen to be the vessel for that love's coming. 

It sure looks like Mary is alone when Gabriel shows up with his big proclamation. One curiosity about how this account is treated is that, in their haste to elevate Mary as something almost not human, some readers of this text overlook the fact that, far from meekly accepting her fate, Mary questions the angel. "How will this be?" she asks. Even if you are an angel, it still doesn't explain how exactly this is going to work.

In Gabriel's previous visit, to the old priest Zechariah, he had been charged to announce the birth of a son to the priest and his wife Elizabeth, who in her long life had never been able to bear a child. Maybe it was understandable that Zechariah had questioned this news, but Gabriel's reaction there was a bit harsher; he essentially hit the mute button on Zechariah and announced he would not be able to speak again until this child was born and given the name John (as in the Baptist). Here, though, Mary's question is met with ... well, an answer. I wonder sometimes what we miss in scripture readings when we can't hear the tone of voice, as to why Zechariah got muted and Mary did not.

Gabriel does answer, no mute button this time, and then comes the moment of (forgive the pun) pregnant pause, as so much hinges on the answer Mary gives. Luke is much more eloquent in his account of Mary's answer, but one could easily summarize it with any one of a number of different modern vernacular sayings. "Let's do this ... bring it on ... make it so." She answers the call, and the rest is gospel.

One could argue that the presence of "love" here is fairly obvious. In another gospel it is flat-out stated that the coming of this child is an act of love; remember "...God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son..."? How this might look to Mary, one could wonder. This seems like a lot for a young woman, betrothed but not yet married, to bear. Social stigma was as real back then as it is now, and being pregnant before being married was going to carry as much, if not more, of that social shame for her as it would for someone in that situation today. Knowing this, Mary stepped up anyway. 

It seems like the news that Elizabeth was carrying a child might have helped, and again, perhaps it's not an accident that Mary spent six months of her pregnancy with Elizabeth for solace from the stigma. And perhaps in a situation where love wasn't going to be apparent, finding family, finding someone else in a very different but also similar situation probably helped keep Mary from feeling cut off from God's love. At the very least, Mary and Elizabeth could be there for each other. 

One more time, an epistle reading helps us pull it all together. This is a bit more florid than Paul's usual final benediction to his readers. This one, though, besides being an extremely effusive salutation, sums up in its own way just what this Advent we've been waiting through is all about. Paul has proclaimed gospel, opened up what had been a mystery for ages, and now sees this gospel no longer confined to the land of Jesus's birth and ministry but spreading to "all the Gentiles," out into the whole world. Again, harkening back to the famous verse from John's gospel, when it says "God so loved the world," it really does mean the whole world, no exceptions. 

Yes, it's good to see signs of hope, promises of peace, and occasions for joy in the weeks of Advent, but love - God's love for us, which hopefully ends up in love for one another - is, in essence, why we're even here. The God that loved his chosen ones so much even when they rebelled against them, the God who so loved the world, the God whose love was meant for all the world, is the God who loves us. One could even say that's what Advent is all about. 

Thanks be to God. Amen.

 

Hymns (from Glory to God: The Presbyterian Hymnal): #---, When Isaiah spoke a word; #83, Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus; #88, O Come, O Come, Emmanuel (verses 1-4); #88, O Come, O Come, Emmanuel (verses 5-7)