(Advent 4) Can We Trust this Kind of Savior?

Advent 4: Love Promises the Kingdom
Luke 1:39-55

The classic Christmas pop song tells us this is
“the most wonderful time of the year,
with the kids jingle-belling
and everyone telling you ‘Be of good cheer,’
and much mistletoe-ing,
and hearts that are glowing when love ones are near.”
And it’s true.
This time of the year is a
veritable barrage of beauty and joy and good will,
a flood of sounds, sights, and smells
that make people break out in smiles and fa-la-la’s.
At least, most of the time.
It’s also a time of the year when, understandably,
we emphasize feeling over thinking.
We want to get into the “spirit of the season,”
to feel it, to be happy, and sentimental.
Analysis is not a priority.

It’s certainly a time for singing without thinking.
It’s amazing when you realize how much profound theological truth
comes from the mouths of people on the sidewalk,
and shoppers pushing carts through Wal-Mart.
And most of them don’t have a clue that they’re being theological.

But it’s not just the general public.
We Christians who nurture our faith in regular worship
will sing of something profound and life-altering,
and it passes right over us.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with that.
One of the gifts of song,
is it gets us in touch with the non-rational parts of our being.
A song can live in us in places other than our mind.
But of course, if we never think about what we sing,
we’re also missing something essential about song.

Case in point.
One of the main themes in Advent and Christmas music
is God’s salvation.
Joy to the world, the Savior reigns...
It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth!...
Remember Christ, our Savior, was born on Christmas day.
In every song we sang so far this morning,
and in every song still to come,
we proclaim the salvation of God,
we sing praise to God our Savior.
But rarely do we ask ourselves,
what is the nature of this salvation?
Rarely do we wonder,
what kind of Savior is this who comes?

I can think of two reasons
why we don’t think about what we sing at Christmas.
The first, most obvious reason, is familiarity.
We could sing these songs blindfolded
with half our brain tied behind our back—
to quote a certain radio personality—
and still not miss a single note or a word.
We don’t have to think, in order to sing them.
They literally slide off our tongues.

The second reason is not so obvious.
...and not so easy for us to admit.
I think we really don’t want to think too hard
about what kind of Savior this is.
Because then we’d have to deal with that reality.
This is not a Savior for the status quo.
This is not the kind of Savior we encounter
who fills us with good warm feelings,
but leaves our way of thinking intact.
This is a Savior who turns our world on its head.

Sometimes I wonder how it ever came to be,
that this radical, subversive story in Luke 1 and 2,
this story of social, political, and spiritual revolution
could become the best-loved story in the world.
How could it have turned into a national holiday
for the most powerful country in the world?
Why do the United States Congress and the White House,
try to outdo each other decorating their halls,
and celebrating this story of humility and poverty?
It’s because we have all long ago stopped thinking
about what it all means.
We really do have a purely secular national holiday going on here,
with a thin veneer of religious symbolism.
But again, I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing.
It’s a wholesome holiday, from Santa Claus to Frosty the Snowman.
It promotes good will and kindness and generosity.
We can use lots more of that these days.
So more power to Christmas.
Let’s keep on lighting the National Christmas tree in Washington,
and singing sweet songs of peace and good will.

But... we who know the rest of the story
dare not forget about it.
This is a prime time to think theologically again.
To realize how formational this story can be for us,
and for the church in society.
This is a season for us to reclaim our identity as a people,
to truly worship God our Savior,
and to realize what God has saved us from.

And this is where a song can help us think.
Mary’s song, if we choose to really listen to it,
will go a long way toward helping us think straight.

Did you hear those words?
We heard them twice already this morning—
read from the Gospel of Luke,
and sung from “Sing the Journey” #13.
This is the song of an ordinary teenage Palestinian girl,
whose people are being oppressed by the world’s superpower,
and who was just visited by the God who saves.
“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.”
Mary sings with confidence about God’s mercy,
quoting lines from the psalms, and from the song of Hannah,
“God has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.”

The song of Mary paints a picture of a God
who saves with power and might,
but does so without relying on any—any—
of the mechanisms of power we human beings constructed.
In fact, those human structures of power and security—
the thrones of political authority,
the power held by those with wealth and resources,
the power of those who control the food supply,
all of these are unmasked,
and shown to be false power.
The social order is turned on its head, in Mary’s song.
The hungry are filled to satisfaction,
while the rich slink away with empty stomachs.
The powerful ones lose their places of influence,
and the lowly are admired and elevated in the eyes of the world.

This is the kind of Savior we sing about at Christmas.
We worship a Savior who bypasses the powers of this world
to accomplish his salvation.
We sing praise to a Savior born in a stable,
not because it made for a sweet picture,
and the cows and sheep were so cute and gentle and peaceful.
Jesus was born in that barn for a very political and economic reason.
His family was being registered and taxed
by an occupying power.
They had neither the wealth nor influence
to avoid this utterly humiliating situation
of having to give birth in a livestock shed.

But in God’s way of wisdom, this was a perfectly appropriate way
to introduce the Savior to the world.
And it was perfectly appropriate to use this young, naive,
and frightened teenage girl,
to take on the task of mothering the Messiah.

Now today, when we stop long enough to think clearly
about these circumstances,
and when we realize what kind of Savior God is,
we are left with a rather haunting question.

Can we trust this kind of Savior?
Can the ultimate good really be served,
can the world really be made a better place,
can the mission of the church be accomplished,
by the kind of Savior who ignores
the very mechanisms of power and social change
that we have invested all our energy into
for all these generations?
Can we trust a Savior who gives a privileged place
to the poor, and the hungry, and the lowly?

We think we know what it takes to fix things in the world.
It’s this sweet baby in a manger,
plus a bunch of money,
unlimited access to resources,
plenty of political capital,
and a strong military to back it up.
That’s something God our Savior could work with, right?

Can we really trust the God who chose a girl like Mary
to be the mother of his Anointed One?
Can we trust God to be there for us? for the church?
if we would be so radical as to let go of
this world’s money and power structures,
and put our security in something so...
insecure... and unpredictable... and unmanageable...
as the Spirit of God, and of God’s people?

We—and I’m talking about the larger institutional church now—
we have built up quite a complex network of structures
that help us feel secure in this threatening world.
We have church institutions that are committed
to educate us well for work and service,
to provide us with financial security,
to give us a good return on our investment,
to help us engage in cross-cultural mission without risking a lot,
to give us a safe and comfortable retirement,
to keep us on the straight path theologically,
to train professional pastors like me
to skillfully lead the church and its institutions,
and I could go on naming ways that we as a church
build structures we rely on for our security.
And I’m not knocking that.
I’m part of that system of security.

But would I recognize...
would we together recognize God our Savior,
if this God tried to bypass all these structures
that give us security
and help us manage the status quo,
and tried to do something brand new among us—
something that made as much sense as
the Messiah being born in a barn,
to a young couple about to become refugees?

Mary had her eyes open, I believe.
She was attentive enough that when God her Savior met her,
she was ready and willing to walk into the unknown.
She didn’t have any structures of wealth and power
to confuse her about where her security should lie.
She had only this Savior of hers that lifted up the lowly.
That’s all she had to trust in.
So she was in a position to believe
what was spoken to her by the Lord,
and to respond, “Here I am. Servant of the Lord.”

When I stop long enough to think about this Savior we sing of,
I have to wonder, honestly,
can I trust this kind of Savior?
Am I ready to trust God to do what God wants to do
in me, through me,
in us, through us,
without depending on any of the things that bring me security?
That’s a haunting question.
It’s a troubling question.
Because I don’t quite know the answer.
I don’t know if I am ready to let go of the things of this world
that make me feel secure.
I want to be.
But it’s easier said than done.

Maybe I should just go back to singing the songs of the season,
about God our Savior,
without bothering my mind with all these difficult questions?
And most of the time,
that’s what I do, in order to stay in a joyful Christmas spirit.

...But then I remember that this news of God’s salvation
was tremendously joyful news.
It made Elizabeth’s baby leap for joy in the womb.
It made Elizabeth shout for joy.
And it made Mary sing a song of exultation,
that has now become immortal.
The angels sang.
The shepherds rejoiced.

This message of salvation is good and joyful news,
and will be received as such,
by those who have not put their security
in human wealth and power structures.

I think the sign of whether we truly have our security in God,
is not that we feel joyful
when we sing the songs of Christmas without thinking.
It’s that we can think clearly and deeply
about what these songs are saying,
and still sing them with a joy that is deep and life-transforming.

May it be so this morning,
as we hear once again the song of Mary,
and then begin to proclaim the salvation of our God,
in the songs of Christmas.

—Phil Kniss, December 24, 2006

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(Advent 3) Stories on the Road to Joy

Advent 3: Love frees from fear
Luke 1:26-38

The third Sunday of Advent is always joy Sunday,
and we light the pink or rose candle to mark it.
It’s one step removed from the darker Advent purple,
that signifies waiting...and wondering “if and when.”
Today we declare a strong, hopeful, confident “Yes!”
God is coming. The Lord is here among us.
And in the presence of the Lord there is joy.
The Gospel truth is that from the darkness, the light of joy emerges.

We just heard one of the Gospel stories, Luke 1:26 and following.
In so many Advent Gospel stories,
something happens that strikes fear into the hearts of people.
Every other paragraph there’s another angel
saying something to the effect of,
“It’s alright! Don’t be afraid.
I know it looks terrifying, and disturbing, and overwhelming,
but don’t be afraid.
God is in it.
God’s love will carry you through.”

Take today’s story of the annunciation to Mary.
Mary just received news that would turn her world upside down.
And she was deeply disturbed!
In verse 29, after the angel’s words,
her state of mind is described by the Greek word dia-tarasso.
The NRSV translates it “perplexed.”
She was perplexed by the angel’s words.
I don’t think that’s strong enough.
My Greek lexicon tells me the word means being in acute distress,
to be deeply troubled, to be very much upset.
Even, to be mentally disturbed.
You might say, Mary had an anxiety attack.
You can understand why she might,
as a young girl, engaged, a virgin, probably still in her teens.
This news of impending motherhood, was truly fearful news.

But there was some other reality at work,
more powerful than this fearful news,
that seemed to take over Mary’s Spirit.
And before the angel left, Mary was able to say with sincerity,
“I am the Lord’s servant. May it be to me according to your word.”

I’m sure it wasn’t instant peace and tranquility for Mary.
I can’t imagine she didn’t struggle with it...over and over.
In next week’s Gospel story she runs to cousin Elizabeth,
probably to be consoled,
to have a safe place to deal with her fears.

But in the end, she was freed from fear, and filled with joy,
And she sang her famous song,
“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.”

How did her fear and anxiety turn to joy?
How did her troubled spirit come to rejoice in God?
Wouldn’t we all like know how to be freed from our fears,
and sing a song of joy?

At the end of this sermon,
I’ll reflect briefly on how it was, perhaps,
that Mary found her road to joy.

But the bulk of my sermon time this morning
I give to five persons from the Park View congregation.

These are persons with stories to tell about a time in their life,
where they made this journey from fear to joy.
They made this journey in different ways, as you will see,
and at different speeds.
And their fears came from different sources—
illness, violence, conflict, inner doubts, depression.

The reason for listening to their stories is not
to extract a moral lesson to apply to our own lives.
It is simply to allow the story itself to speak.
To enter another’s experience, and hopefully make some connection,
that might spark in us, a vision of hope.

These five persons will come up in the order
that their names are listed on the worship insert.

־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־
Speaker One
In January 1986 I was in Haiti as a cross-cultural student with Goshen College. There were curfews imposed throughout the country because of stirring political problems. When we were allowed out, our leaders required that we go nowhere without a “Haitian family member”. Another student and had gone to downtown Port-au-Prince to meet his “Haitian father.” Our little venture coincided with a coup d’etat and Baby Doc fleeing the country. We found ourselves in a war zone. There was looting, vehicles burning, and many people trying to flee the city in anyway they could. One roadblock stopped an ambulance and about 20 people crowded into and on top of the vehicle. Several Haitians came out of the “relative safety” of their homes inviting us in for protection. We declined, thinking that the most important thing was to return to our homes since they would be worried about us, and our leaders had no idea where we were.
As we tried to leave the city ourselves a Ton Ton Macoute (presidential police) was walking towards us, raised his club and began beating someone only feet away from us. We saw people being shot, and bodies in the streets. At one point I even had a gun barrel inches from my chest. As we tried to get back to our homes a truck load of soldiers came towards us....it was us and them. Needless to say we were afraid since we had seen a similar situation where the soldiers opened fire on a crowd of people. Having declined shelter, we tried to remain as inconspicuous as two white guys in Haiti without a hiding place can. We heard one of the soldiers shouting to us “hey blan” (whitey). We ignored him and he yelled it again. As we looked up, there was a soldier with a big white toothy grin and he said “bon jour” as they passed. Whew.
We made it back to our houses, a little shaken.....but definitely rejoicing in renewed life. It was an amazing thing to experience during all that chaos, turmoil and violence, people reaching out to help us, and even a soldier offering us to have a nice day.

Speaker Two
It is a fearful thing, being brought up short with a reminder of ones mortality. Being diagnosed with cancer requiring immediate surgery in late 2002 was not a barrel of laughs in the traditional sense, but through the fervent prayers of you all, God saw fit to turn that fear into a joy that passes all understanding.
Chemo was not fun. I spent most of my time at home on the sofa covered completely with quilts. Into this private womb-world, I allowed a small Jesus head sculpture. I traced the contours of the wooden face, centered on Jesus, and prayed constantly, asking for healing, comfort, and presence. I could “feel” the prayers of the community of saints on my behalf. I listened to religious classical music and meditated on the miracle of life and creation. I was unexpectedly consumed with a joy that vibrated through every piece of my being. I felt I was surrounded by clouds of angels and that if I would reach out I could touch them. I could just hear heavenly music. I became utterly and completely unafraid. It was as if all my atoms vibrated and merged with God’s song of complete acceptance and love.
The last few days of each chemo cycle, I would go in to the school where I was teaching to touch base with my students and make lesson plans for the next few weeks when I would be unable to be with them. The principal, with whom I had worked many years, noticed, questioned me, and affirmed the evidence of and the reality of this work of God in my life. Although I was a believer, before, I am now a new creation. My atoms merged with God and I was created anew.
The deep joy continues to this day. When I stop to listen, I hear still hear spiritual songs of praise in my soul, head, and heart. The Gospel of John tells us that God’s perfect Love casts out all fear. I am a witness to this truth.

Speaker Three
I grew up in rural isolation on a Mennonite family farm in Pennsylvania. At age 11, I was converted—“born again”—cranking the cream separator after a summer evening milking. At 21, I was introduced to Eastern Mennonite School. Without a high school education, I was admitted to the 2-year Bible course at EMS. World War II was looming, and I registered as a CO. Soon after starting school, I was drafted. The dean informed me I could get a deferment by studying theology. With 36 hours to decide, I chose to study rather than enter alternative service.
One summer, I joined a carload of students to study at Goshen College. Attending Guy F. Hershberger’s sociology course led me to comment later, “Theology may reach to heaven, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t reach earth. I will have to study sociology.”
After graduating, I married Ellen and we moved to Philadelphia where I enrolled in graduate school to study sociology. But pressure from the “church fathers” in Harrisonburg brought me back by summer’s end. They told me I got deferment to prepare for church work, not for secular study. In Harrisonburg, two half-time assignments were improvised to assist a local pastor, and teach High School Bible.
By the summer of 1945, my “pot was boiling.” Youthful energy and naivete carried me forward. I grew up separated from “the world.” Suddenly I was in the academic arena, and I was caught in contradiction—suspicious and fearful of religious change, yet sensing that new ways of moving forward were needed. Trends in Mennonite practices seemed more troubling than helpful. My faith was growing energetically. But it seemed the way was blocked for me to resume graduate school.
On Sunday October 21, 1945, mid-way through a worship service in Ellen’s home church, a crystal-clear certainty suddenly gripped me—I am going to Europe on a Mennonite Central Committee assignment. The next morning I promptly reported to the Dean my call to MCC. He looked puzzled. “Didn’t Bro. Mumaw see you on Saturday? MCC asked him to invite you take an assignment in Belgium.” These two life-focusing moments, the first “internal,” the second “external,” became a unique milestone in my life. It brought together diverse and competing strands in my life, and contained seeds that would germinate over the coming decades. Though never repeated so dramatically, this event has been a touchstone ever since. Hardship prepares the way for advance in the Christian journey. Fear and uncertainty can be replaced with joy.

Speaker Four
A former student of ours came to me in the fall of 1997 when my wife and I were in Indonesia. He said our church (the Javanese Mennonite Conference) is split down the middle. Many have tried to help us get back together, but it is not working. In an uncharacteristically insistent way he said to me, “You have to come and help us! For eight years we have not had any conference meetings or assemblies. You have to help us”
I was very uneasy. Even after working with Javanese Mennonites ten years I still felt very incapable of reading their pulse, particularly in conflict situations. I was fearful of getting dragged into a deepening quagmire. But when the MCC administrators asked us to consider working on reconciliation in this church, we finally agreed. Early on we had three points of rejoicing.
The first was when MCC arranged for us to stop in Holland on our way to Indonesia to meet with Dutch Mennonite Conference leaders. Remember, the Dutch Mennonites began the church in Java, and they had offered to send a mediator. But when we met with them, they gave us their blessing and said they wanted to pay half of whatever costs we incurred. We were overjoyed at this attitude of gracious support for our venture.
Secondly, we started by developing on a plan of action to work for reconciliation. I wrote it up and then went to visit the chairperson of the side of the conflict which heretofore had refused to meet with anyone. He was an outsider. I had never met him before. When we sat down he began to spell out his own plan. I was amazed that what he was saying was almost identical with what I had written on my paper. When he finished, I handed him my paper and said, “Do you want to see evidence that God is at work in this?” He wondered what I meant until he read my paper.
The third point of joy came in November 2000 in the “Reconciling General Assembly” which had the single agenda item, to choose a new united conference board. At so many points during my five trips to Indonesia to work for reconciliation, I was anxious, fearful and doubtful. But that day was a day of celebration--weeping and great joy.

Speaker Five
The year was 1991. I had been diagnosed with depression and had been in counseling for three years. I was afraid.
I was afraid I would never feel good again.
I was afraid my illness was damaging my children.
I was afraid our savings would be depleted trying to help me.

When I finally named the deepest source of my pain,
I was afraid I would have to confront my abuser.

I lost my sense of self; I lost the song in my heart,
And I lost my names for God.

My names for God were connected to gender, power, authority and judgment. They no longer worked. One of the last days I had been to church, a women cornered me to quietly tell me that depression was a sign I was not living close enough to God—and I was afraid she was right.

After a particularly difficult counseling session, I came home and retreated to my tiny sewing room. I had been designing dolls—15 inch muslin forms with thin legs and arms and simple faces. I began to work with a stack of neutral prints. From almost colorless fabric I made a dress and pinafore. I gathered eyelet lace into wings and transformed the unadorned doll body into an angel. I painted her shoes gold, glued tiny stars among her white curls, and named her “Angelique.”

Evening had turned into night. Most of my family was sleeping. I scooped up my doll, and woke my husband to show him my treasure. He managed a sleepy compliment. I found my daughter and her best friend still awake and studying. All three of us sat on her bed and looked at every wonderful detail of the new doll with childlike excitement.

I returned to my sewing room, placed Angelique on the work table, pulled out my journal and wrote this:

“I wonder how God felt when He-or-She created me. Was I scooped up and carried all over heaven and shown to everyone? Did the angels find delight in all of my special details? Did God laugh with joy at the sparkle in my eyes? And When God was finished with me did He/She look into my face and say ‘oh yes, this is very good!’?”

From that point on I began to heal in a different, more peaceful way. I knew I could face the fear of the desert, and walk though it. I knew I would someday be better. With my hands I connected to God as my Creator. God had a name, and a song returned to my heart.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow
Praise God all creatures here below
Praise God above ye heavenly hosts
Creator, Christ and Comforter

־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־־
I trust in some small way we encountered, in these stories,
the God whose love casts out fear.
Love, and fear, cannot long co-exist.
For love leads us to embrace and be embraced by another.
And a genuine embrace is something we cannot do,
while we are shielding and protecting ourselves.
Love leads us to open ourselves—bodies, minds, spirits—
to that which is beyond ourselves.
And at the same time drop our defenses.

And that, I believe, is what gave young Mary the power
to accept the will of God for her life.
She knew love.
She embraced the God of love,
and she accepted God’s embrace, as extended by the angel,
“Greetings, you who are highly favored!
The Lord is with you.”

May we, no matter what may strike fear in our hearts today,
open ourselves, and allow ourselves to embrace and be embraced by,
the love of God, and of God’s people.
So that Jesus Christ might shine in us today, and dispel our night.

Morning Star, O cheering sight!
Ere thou cam’st, how dark earth’s night!
Jesus mine, in me shine; in me shine, Jesus mine;
fill my heart with light divine.

—Phil Kniss, December 17, 2006

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(Advent 2) What it Takes to Change the Landscape

Advent 2: Love invites repentance
Luke 3:1-6

I like John the Baptist. I like him a lot.
I don’t understand him completely,
but I like him.
I always have admired him...from a distance.
But now I’m coming to like him.

This wilderness prophet and baptizer is one of the more
colorful characters in the Bible.
And I admire colorful characters.
Because it’s not in my nature to be all that colorful.
Muted earth-tones suit me just fine.
You can tell that by looking at my side of the bedroom closet.
Lots of brown and beige and olive green in there.
I never have wanted to stick out in a crowd.
So I’ve admired the man John the Baptist,
the way I might admire... Willie Nelson or Jelly Roll Morton.
Because they’re colorful people.

But this Advent, as I looked at these texts again,
I have begun to like John the Baptist.
What I wouldn’t give to sit down in a coffee shop with him,
and talk for a few hours.
We could be friends.
With the exception of his insect diet, his animal wardrobe,
his living in the wilderness,
his miraculous birth,
and his penchant for yelling at people,
and calling them “broods of vipers,”
except for that, he and I have a lot in common!
I’m serious about that.
Strip away those cultural oddities,
of which we really don’t understand the significance,
and get down to the core of his message,
and I would have to say, “Amen. Preach it, John!”
It’s basically the same thing I try to preach,
only without the yelling and name-calling.

But I’ve only lately come to realize that.
I used to think John’s message was a one time only message,
to prepare the way for Messiah Jesus.
Which explains why it might seem strange to our ears.
Because we live in a different age.
We’re not waiting for the Messiah anymore.
We’ve already seen the salvation of our God.
But if you think about it,
John the Baptist sounds remarkably current.

Sure, he lived in the Middle East, 2000 years ago.
But think about the Jewish community he was preaching to.
This Hebrew community of faith, children of Abraham,
were losing sight of their peoplehood,
they were becoming more distant from the covenant.
Because they were under extreme pressure.
The Empire of Rome was slowly crushing their identity.
Many people didn’t notice, and didn’t care,
how much they were becoming like the Greeks and Romans.
But some groups tried bravely to hold onto their identity—
Pharisees, Sadducees, Zealots, Nazarites.
They wanted to restore Israel’s sense of peoplehood.
They had vastly different methods in mind,
different convictions, different assumptions.
So there was a lot of conflict among them.
Sometimes even violent.
Meanwhile, the people of God were losing
their community moral grounding.
Now think about that description of the people
John the Baptist was called to preach to—
a faith community once close, cohesive, in covenant,
now severely fragmented, polarized,
under intense cultural and political pressure,
a faith community losing their peoplehood in a hostile culture,
a faith community losing touch with the core
of who God called them to be in this world,
because they began to assimilate into it,
rather than engage it with their faith.

Does that sound vaguely familiar?
Sounds to me like the 21st-century Western church.
Sounds an awful lot like us.
Once in close, cohesive covenant
now fragmented, sometimes polarized,
under pressure from a secular dominant culture
that is often hostile to Christian community.
Confused about who we are,
about our community moral grounding,
about how we are to live Christianly
in this culture that we have embraced without thinking.

When you think of the spiritual state of affairs
in these two faith communities—
1st-century Palestinian Judaism,
and 21st-century Western Christianity—
I think we are more alike than we are different.
And I think John’s message has something to say to us.

In fact, John’s message wasn’t original to him,
he borrowed from an even earlier time in Israel,
when Isaiah was calling the people back into covenant,
while they were floundering in exile.
John’s sermon came straight from Isaiah 40.

So over the span of three vastly different cultures,
over two-and-a-half millennia,
the message still applies.
“People of God,” the message goes,
“remember who you are.
Repent. Return to your God, to your covenant.
Return to your mission and identity as a people of God.
God is fully of mercy. God will abundantly pardon.
God wants to move among you,
to form you as a people,
to partner with you, as a people,
to establish God’s reign in the world,
to bring about what is right and just,
to restore what has been broken.”
So repent, my people. Prepare the way for the Lord.

That is John’s message—
a message to the lost people of God.
Repent, people. Repent.
This is not the kind of repentance
that we modern Western Christians tend to think of.
This is not me, individually, being remorseful, regretful,
being emotionally convicted of my personal sin.
That might happen,
as a result of hearing this message to the community.
Individuals like me, might feel sorrow and regret,
for particular ways we’ve been disobedient to the covenant.
And that sorrow might, hopefully,
bring us to confession and repentance.
But repentance is not the same thing as sorrow and remorse.
Repentance is literally, change in our way of thinking.
If you break down the Greek word, metanoia,
that’s precisely what it means.
To think again. To change our mind about something.

Or, in the case of a whole community of faith being called to repent,
as John the Baptist was doing,
I think the best way to put it in plain English is this:
“People of God, change your old ways of thinking.
Think rightly about who you are, about who God is,
and about how you are called to live in this world.”
Repent. Think again.
And your sins will be forgiven—as a people
and as individuals.

Knowing the kind of community John was preaching to,
that’s a powerful message.
The people had become lazy in their thinking.
They failed to see what the Roman domination
was doing to them as a community of faith.
They were losing their story as God’s covenant people.
They were failing to think of themselves rightly,
in relation to this powerful Roman Empire,
whose pagan culture was taking over the world.
Some of them were getting caught up in the political struggle.
Some were in active conflict with each other
over this or that bit of religious trivia.
But their major failing was that they no longer
thought of themselves as God’s own people.
And it affected how they lived.

Obviously.
We can’t avoid this connection between thought and life.
We’re not off the hook,
just because the word repentance means to change our thoughts,
rather than our deeds.
We’re not just called to do mental gymnastics,
or simply to play around with thoughts, for their own sake.
The change of thinking John was talking about
cannot be separated from doing or being.
Change of mind brings change of life.
As Douglas John Hall wrote,
“Christian thinking is a dimension of Christian being—
a very important dimension...
Doing is an extension of thought,
and thought is already deed.”
That’s one of the points Jesus was making
in his Sermon on the Mount,
when he said that it wasn’t just murder,
but angry or evil thoughts toward another person,
that would bring God’s judgement on us,
and when he said that lustful thoughts
already enact the evil of adultery.

So repentance is to change our way of thinking.
And thinking rightly will lead us toward living rightly.
And if our thought does not lead to right deeds,
it cannot be Christian thought.
Obviously, Christians have no monopoly on good deeds.
People can do good deeds for a wide variety of reasons.
Even Christians can do good, for less-than-Christian motives.
That doesn’t change the reality that there is, for the church,
such a thing as thinking Christianly.

And that is what I call us to this morning,
as the community of faith at Park View.
I invite us to become a repentant community.
As a church, let us think again.
Let us think Christianly.
Let us think our faith clearly, with the mind of Christ.
Let us examine our thought patterns as a community.
Our thought patterns shape what we do as a church.
The kind of organizational structure we adopt for ourselves.
The way we make decisions.
The way we distribute our financial resources as a church.
The way we plan our worship.
The way we engage in outreach.
It is wise to ask, dear church,
do these thought patterns that shape our life together
have their origin in God?
Are they of God?
Or do they have their origin in our dominant culture?
Are they of the world?

And if we thinking rightly about our identity as a people of God,
our personal decisions and choices will also be impacted.
Every day we face a multitude of choices
that might be influenced one way or another
if we were thinking Christianly
about our identity with the people of God.
It seems to me that my decision
about whether to watch a certain movie this weekend,
should be influenced less by whether it’s a blockbuster,
and likely to be the most popular movie in decades,
and more by whether watching it is consistent with my identity
as a part of the people of God.
The same with choices about our television viewing habits,
the kind of Christmas presents we give,
the size and cost of the houses we buy or build,
the cars we drive,
the food we eat,
the books and magazines we read,
our use of the internet,
and nearly every other choice we make.
Thinking Christianly, as a member of the people of God,
makes a difference.

Easier said than done, I know.
Thinking Christianly
requires the careful and diligent work of discernment,
and a community of faith willing to engage in this hard work.
The work is hard, but it is not discouraging.
In fact, this call to repentance is good news.
At least, according to the scriptures we heard today.

This wild-eyed, locust-eating, hairy, screaming, name-calling
prophet in the wilderness called John the Baptist,
we are told, was preaching good news to his people.
It had to be good news.
Why else would they come out in droves to hear him preach,
and be baptized?
And it’s good news for us, too.
Which is why I’d be more than happy to chat with him over coffee.

See, according to John, we have help with this work of repentance,
this work of change of mind and change of life.
What we are responsible for is the turn.
It’s the willingness to let our truth be subject to the truth of God.
To make that critical, deliberate turn
away from old ways of thinking patterned on dominant culture,
and toward thinking that is consistent with the reign of God,
thoughts patterned after the mind of Christ.
And once the turn is made,
we have prepared the way of the Lord.
The whole landscape will be changed.

John said, quoting Isaiah,
that the valleys will be filled,
mountains and hills made low,
the crooked made straight,
and the rough ways smooth.

As someone who grew in Florida, where it’s flat everywhere,
and who deeply appreciates the beauty and variety
that mountains and valleys bring to the landscape,
I’ve always had a mental block with this image
of bulldozing the mountains and filling the valleys,
and making everything flat again.
It’s just not an appealing picture.
But I understand the concept here.
It’s like rolling out the red carpet for God.
Clearing the path, making it smooth,
so God can come to us freely and quickly.
But, on further thought, that doesn’t quite capture it.
In a red-carpet kind of entrance,
everyone else does all the hard work in advance.
The honored one simply steps out of the limo,
and walks in style.
That’s not the impression we get from John and Isaiah.
It’s not quite clear who is responsible to change the landscape.
The work of preparing the way is ours.
The prophet speaks in the imperative voice.
“Do this. Make the path straight.”
But then, the voice suddenly changes.
It is descriptive, not imperative.
“Every valley shall be filled,
and every mountain and hill shall be made low,
the crooked shall be made straight,
and the rough ways made smooth;
and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.”

You know, it might be tempting to think that it’s all up to us
to change the landscape.
That we have to get out there,
and start scraping off the mountains,
and filling up the valleys.
It’s tempting to think we ourselves
need to bring about this salvation.
But the good news is, this is the act of a saving God,
working in and through the very people God is saving.
The valleys will be filled, when the salvation of God appears.
It is the work of God to change the landscape.

If it was human initiative, and human power, and human wisdom,
that was needed to change the social and spiritual landscape,
then this text from Luke 3 sure is an odd one.
Did you notice how it began?
Luke takes great pains to situate this story,
in the context of the political powers that be.
“In the 15th year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius,
while Pilate was governor of Judea,
Herod was ruler of Galilee,
and Philip ruler of Ituraea and Trachonitis,
and Lysanias ruler of Abilene,
during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas...”
It specifically mentions seven different ruling authorities—
imperial, national, regional, and religious rulers.
And then comes the punch line.
“The word of God came to John son of Zechariah
in the wilderness.”
What a set up!
While all these emperors and governors and rulers,
are occupied with managing all their important duties,
and exercising their prestigious powers,
God is going to step in and act
though this weird guy out in the desert.
God is going to announce the coming of the Messiah,
the anointed One who will change the entire
political, social, and religious landscape,
and asks to John, son of Zack, to do it for him.
Amazing, isn’t it?

But it sets up the rest of the story.
See, it’s not human power—even the height of human power—
that can bring about a change of landscape.
What it takes is are humble souls willing to turn toward God.
What it takes ia a people willing to repent.
To think again about who we are,
and what God is up to in this world.
And when we think differently,
God will act in us, through us, around us,
to change the landscape.
God will never coerce us into accepting this salvation.
God simply invites us to turn toward his salvation.
And then the landscape changes before our eyes.
Because the salvation of God is moving among us.

So, my dear church, let us hear God’s call to repent,
to change our way of thinking,
and open ourselves to God’s great salvation.
And in this new landscape,
let us walk as children of God,
as children of the light.

—Phil Kniss, December 10, 2006

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