Reflections from Mary, Simeon, and Anna

Christmas 1: God With Us
Luke 2:21-38


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The three pastors of Park View personify three of the main characters in today's story from Luke 2 -- Mary the mother of Jesus, Simeon, and Anna the prophetess.

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(Advent 3) What love really looks like (the other side of the Christmas story)

Advent 3: LOVE
Psalm 113; Luke 1:26-56

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This is the time of year I talk out of both sides of my mouth.
I push back on the consumerism of the season,
and the saccharine-sweet pictures of Bethlehem,

and romanticized, star-lit manger scenes
that bear no resemblance to the Biblical story.
And I admit I love the nostalgic side of Christmas,
and have not one, but two
romanticized, star-lit manger scenes in our house.
I’m no scrooge about Christmas traditions.
I just want to be honest and call them what they are—
made-up culturally acceptable images that promote goodwill,
spark human connection and generosity,
and have a lot of other benefits.
I don’t begrudge anyone celebrating Santa or singing about Rudolph
or making up characters for the nativity story
that aren’t even in the Bible,
like the Three Kings and the innkeeper.
We shouldn’t fight that.
There is inherent goodness in it, so embrace it.
But then, when we gather as a worshiping community of the Book,
then it’s time to take the God of the Bible seriously,
and the biblical narrative seriously,
and see what hard and beautiful truths it might be telling us.
_____________________
There is a difference between the cultural traditions,
and the biblical narrative in Luke,
as read by the Rhodes family this morning.
And nowhere is that distinction more sharp
than in the person of Mary.
Mary was a teenage girl—inexperienced, unknown, powerless—
legal property of her father,
soon to become legal property of the carpenter Joseph,
soon to become shamed and endangered,
because of her pregnancy before marriage.
God came to her first,
to use her as the means to bring
the saving Christ into the world.
It’s as unbelievable as it sounds.
But Mary believed the unbelievable,
and went to tell her elder cousin.
Elizabeth confirmed, “God is at work in you!”
And Mary broke out in a song of joy—
just not the kind of joy we expect.
It wasn’t “Oh joy!
God has blessed me with a wonderful gift!”
No, it was a song of revolution—
social, and political, and religious revolution.
Mary’s song could be a protest anthem.
She sings of the small towering over the big,
the weak defeating the strong,
the poor out-ranking the rich,
the nobodies surpassing the somebodies.
She sings about God taking the social order,
and turning it on its head.
This revolutionary anthem no longer shocks us.
It’s just part of the Christmas soundtrack.
The Magnificat is sung everywhere—
even in ornate cathedrals by elite choirs
to the delight of royalty and the top 1%—
the very people who are targets of the revolution
being sung about.
Oh, well, at least it’s being sung.
And it should be sung.
This song of Mary captures the essence
of the whole biblical nativity narrative:
Think of all the “little people” God used
to help unfold the story of cosmic salvation.
It wasn’t just the girl and her carpenter fiancé.
It was lowly shepherds on the social margins.
It was the virtually unknown religious worker Zechariah.
The people in this story honored by an angel’s visit
were people of little or no standing,
in a small town in a tiny country
being occupied by a foreign power.
_____________________
The story of a Bethlehem Christmas
is a story of the deep love of God being shown to people
in a state of emptiness, poverty, and danger.
At Christmas we are invited to bow in worship to a God
who loves this world,
and proves it by going to places that are off the map,
people that are out of sight,
and situations that others turn away from.
No, God is not anti-power and anti-wealth.
Quite the opposite.
God appreciates power, and its capacity to implement God’s agenda.
That’s why God is tender toward those
who have power taken away.
God is on the side of joy and beauty and abundance and freedom.
That’s why God moves toward the poor and oppressed,
to show them what they are missing, yet deserve.
God has no objection to wealth and power.
But when those who have it,
don’t use it for God’s purposes,
God turns toward those who will.
If we, the rich and powerful today—especially today,
in this suffering and out-of-balance world—
if we fail to side with the poor, the hungry, the oppressed,
if we fail to join God’s mission of bringing justice,
peace, goodwill, and shalom,
God will look for other partners.
When the powerful fail, as they often do,
God lets them get upstaged by the weak.
_____________________
This is the essence of the Bethlehem story.
We heard the theme in the song of Mary.
We heard the theme in today’s Psalm, 113—
“Praise the Lord,
who raises the poor from the dust
and lifts the needy from the ash heap;
and seats them with princes.”
And if we look at the Old Testament prophet Micah,
we see this Bethlehem reversal named outright:
“But you, O Bethlehem of Ephrathah,
who are one of the little clans of Judah,
from you shall come forth for me
one who is to rule in Israel.”
When all the nostalgia clears away,
we must take Bethlehem seriously.
We must look for the Bethlehems in today’s world,
find the little ones that others overlook,
move toward the poor and needy,
notice where there is injustice, and raise our voices,
and show them the love of God.
There are many figurative “Bethlehems” we could name right now.
But for the remainder of my sermon time today,
let’s talk about the literal Bethlehem, in 2020.
Yes, the still little town just outside Jerusalem,
situated in Palestinian territory.
Bethlehem is on my mind,
because I read recently how the COVID pandemic
has decimated that community.
The livelihood of thousands of workers and families,
depends on the tourist industry,
which went from 2 million annual visitors to practically zero.
And then I remembered . . .
exactly 20 years ago, December 2000,
we connected with that Bethlehem during our worship service,
and spoke with Dr. Bishara Awad,
founding president of Bethlehem Bible College.
Bethlehem was under siege that year,
during the second intifada,
and suffering terribly.
One of our members, the late Calvin Shenk,
was a friend of Dr. Awad,
and helped make the connection.
We heard, in his own voice,
what our brothers and sisters in Bethlehem were experiencing,
and we prayed for each other.
As I remembered that,
I had the urge to reconnect with Bishara Awad.
20 years ago it took a 100-foot phone cord strung from the library,
down the aisle to this pulpit to a big speaker-phone box.
Today, I could just Zoom.
So in less than 24 hours after it occured to me,
I was on a video call with Dr. Awad.
We spoke for about 20 minutes on Friday morning,
and on behalf of all of us,
I asked him about life in Bethlehem today,
with COVID and the continuing injustice.
And once again, we prayed for each other.
We recorded the conversation,
with the intent to share it with you all this morning.
So now, 20 years after our first conversation,
we will again hear from our brother in Christ, Bishara Awad.
For sake of time,
I will share only 8 minutes of the conversation and prayer.
But after the service,
in an email to the Park View congregation,
we will send a link,
so you can hear the whole 20-minute conversation,
and everything that our brother had to share with us.
So here is our brother, Dr. Bishara Awad,
now President Emeritus of Bethlehem Bible College.
_____________________
I trust we will continue to hold Dr. Awad
and his community in our prayers,
and that we will do as he asked,
and grow in our understanding of the situation they are facing,
and support them as fellow members of the body of Christ,
and with him, to hold to the hope we have in Christ,
and to lean in to the love of God that we celebrate together
at this time of year.
Let us join now together in a prayer of confession,
and a moment of silence,
during which I invite us to lift up in prayer
our sisters and brothers in Bethlehem.
one O God of love and justice,
who announced a re-ordering of the world,
make good your word,
and begin with us.
all Open our hearts and unblock our ears
to hear the voices of the poor
and share their struggle;
and send us away empty with longing
for your promise to come true
in Jesus Christ.
(silence)
one The God who longs to be with us
is full of love, freely forgives,
and gladly comes and fills our open hearts.
—Phil Kniss, December 20, 2020

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(Advent 2) On plagues, peace, and penitence

Advent 2: PEACE
Joel 2:12-13, 28-29

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On the second Sunday of Advent we always highlight peace . . .

but with a little bit of an edge.

This call to peace comes along with a call to repent.

And “repent” is usually a one-word command!

with an exclamation mark!

or two or three!

plus maybe a few unspeakable squiggles!

When we follow the traditional Revised Common Lectionary,

that call to repentance comes out of the mouth

of a screechy and straggly prophet down by the Jordan River,

called John the Baptist,

a man whose idea of good preaching

is calling his congregation a “brood of vipers.”

This year, in the Narrative Lectionary,

we come to another prophet, in our Old Testament—

the prophet Joel.

Now, I like John the Baptist.

He’s a colorful character and I like preaching about him.

And we’ll get to him later, in January.

But I’m relieved to listen to Joel this year on Advent 2.

Joel was a prophet made for the times we live in.

Is it just a coincidence, or is it Providence,

that today, as a pandemic surges around us,

the lectionary gives us a prophet

who was sent to speak good news

to a people devastated by a plague?

In his case, it was a plague of locusts.

What Joel has to say, is pretty timely, it seems to me.

We heard just a few verses in chapter 2.

But the first chapter and a half are full of the most vivid

word-pictures of vast human and environmental suffering,

not unlike today’s world.

We probably can’t picture a locust plague on this scale,

but we have seen news photos and frightening video,

where wildfires or hurricanes swept through,

destroying everything in their paths.

Add then throw in a pandemic.

Joel writes,

“What the cutting locust left,

the swarming locust has eaten.

What the swarming locust left,

the hopping locust has eaten,

and what the hopping locust left,

the destroying locust has eaten.”

Or as Phil Helmuth might paraphrase,

having been to St. Charles Parish recently

on Mennonite Disaster Service work . . .

“What Hurricane Laura left,

Hurricane Delta has eaten.

What Hurricane Delta left,

Black Mold has eaten.

What Black Mold left,

COVID-19 made worse by keeping people away.”

The prophet Joel goes on.

“Be dismayed, you farmers,

wail, you vinedressers.

Pomegranate, palm, and apple—

all the trees of the field are dried up.

Surely, joy withers away among the people.

Put on sackcloth and lament, you priests,

wail, you ministers at the altar.”

And it continues painting word pictures of utter devastation.

Until we come to today’s reading,

“Yet even now, says the Lord,

return to me with all your heart,

with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning;

rend your hearts and not your clothing.

Return to the Lord, your God,

for he is gracious and merciful,

slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love,

and relents from punishing.”

And Joel then offers,

“God will give you the early rain for your vindication . . .

I will repay you for the years the locust has eaten.”

And then, “I will pour out my spirit on all flesh;

your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,

your old men shall dream dreams,

and your young men shall see visions . . .

I will pour out my spirit.”

_____________________

So what do we make out of this, for our times?

No, we’re not going to draw exact parallels.

Our context is entirely different.

Our nation is not a worshiping community

of God’s covenant people.

Our theology doesn’t interpret locusts and viruses

as God’s judgement for sin.

Nevertheless, what can we learn about God from Joel,

that might help in a pandemic and other widespread suffering?

What we learn is that God does not desire our suffering.

God is full of grace and mercy.

And God is longing for, and watching for

our openness and receptivity to God’s initiative.

Where there is any movement toward God,

where there is any willingness to humble ourselves,

to open ourselves,

to acknowledge our need, our dependency,

to be vulnerable before God,

where there is any of that, it warms the heart of God,

and God opens up the storehouse of mercy,

and forgiveness falls like the early rains.

That is the picture of God in Joel, and throughout scripture.

What’s needed from us is only a grain of trust,

a nod toward God,

a willingness to at least open our hearts to God.

I love Joel’s word choice: “rend your hearts, not your garments.”

The biblical symbol of repentance is tearing your clothing.

Sitting on the ground in sackcloth—

humble fabric made even more lowly by ripping it up.

That’s well and good, Joel says,

but even better, tear open your hearts.

No, this is not a violent image.

It’s not tearing apart in order to inflict pain or destroy.

It’s a rending that opens up,

pulls apart an opening that allows God,

invites God, to enter, to transform, to effect a true change,

a repentance,

and then, to heal and create a new and clean heart.

This is not unwelcomed punishment.

This is a welcomed rending that opens us

to the endless love and mercy of God.

I have a feeling this kind of repentance,

is what we all need right now,

to lead us down the path of peace.

Not saying we’re a degenerate “brood of vipers”

to be guilted into putting on sackcloth and ashes.

But . . .

Who of us is not guilty of harboring ill will

toward people on the other side of the political aisle,

or toward people who think the virus is a hoax?

Who of us does not find ourselves, at times,

being self-protective or self-interested,

rather than vulnerable and open to others?

Who of us does not give in to worry or dread now and then,

and fall short in faith and trust?

Who of us does not sometimes listen more closely

to the shrill voices of division, despair, and distrust,

than to the softer, deeper voices of compassion and empathy?

Who of us does not find ourselves

weary and worn and depleted; dried-up versions of ourselves,

unable to muster the energy or spiritual wherewithal

to boldly step out in faith,

or to give sacrificially of ourselves,

or even say or do much of anything that resembles faith?

Who of us does not struggle like that at times,

and stand in need of God’s mercy?

I know for certain that I do.

That list of human frailty and faithlessness that I just named?

I have owned everyone of them,

at one point or another during this past year.

And some I battle against daily.

So what response does God want of me?

What does Joel call me toward?

Repentance.

Repentance.

A word that means, literally, a change in my way of thinking.

I am being called to turn, or to return,

to rend my heart, even if just a crack,

and open up it to God.

To say to God,

“I open myself to you.”

And mean it.

And then let God do God’s work.

According to Joel, here is the kind of God

toward whom we rend our hearts—

a God who is “gracious and compassionate,

slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love,”

a God who “pours down for you abundant rain,

the early and the later rain.”

a God who, in the words of Jesus in today’s Gospel reading,

“gives good gifts to his children, to those who ask.”

This kind of repentance is available to us all.

It’s not just for the despicable evil-doers of this world.

It’s also for us good-hearted and well-intentioned Jesus people,

who happen to have gotten the wind knocked out of us,

who are spent, and sad,

and struggling to make sense of life and faith.

We . . . are invited to rend our hearts.

It’s a gentle, and kind invitation.

It comes from a God of unconditional love.

This repentance is not about remorse or self-punishment,

or wallowing in guilt,

or adopting a “coulda-shoulda-woulda” mindset.

It’s about turning toward God, instead of away.

It’s about a positive choice to

honestly re-examine ourselves and our assumptions,

to open ourselves to a deeper truth,

to individually and collectively return

to that which makes us human—

being in a right relationship with our Creator.

So let us do that right now, 

in a prayer of confession.

You will find it in your order of worship.

I will read the light print,

and you will respond with the bold.

And we will observe a moment of silence in the middle.

one Gracious God, we humbly confess our utter need of you.

We too often carry our fear close to our chest.

We guard ourselves from discomforting vulnerability.

Help us to open ourselves to you more fully.

all We return to you. 

        We rend our hearts open before you. 

        We receive your grace.

one Still our minds. Calm our racing hearts. Fill our lungs with your spirit-breath of peace.

(silence)

one Children of God, be of good cheer.

We have opened ourselves to a God 

who is gracious and merciful,

slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.

all We come, we cry, we watch, we wait, we look, we long for you.

—Phil Kniss, December 6, 2020

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(Advent 1) Hope and power

Advent 1: HOPE
Daniel 6:6-27

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This morning no one can accuse me

of having an irrelevant sermon topic: “Hope and power.”

Right our nation, our political structures, indeed our culture,

is in a massive struggle over power.

The two major political parties in our country

are walking a knife’s edge

to determine who has just enough power

to make decisions to shape our common life.

Right now the fight is over who will own a tie-breaking vote.

In the Senate, the House, the White House, the court system,

every branch of government is trying to sort out who has the power.

At the same time, those outside the political power structures

are trying to make their voice heard.

They are using the power of the pen, the megaphone, the internet,

and in some extreme cases, lethal weapons.

In various ways, from top to bottom, from left to right,

we are in the middle of a wide-spread struggle for power.

And I’m not suggesting we shouldn’t struggle for power.

This is how oppressive systems break down—

when the cost of holding it all together

is greater than the cost of letting it fall.

So I’m simply naming what is.

This is where we are right now in our society,

and yes, in the church.

We are in a struggle for power.

_____________________

And then the other word . . . hope.

Is that not relevant?

Who of you doesn’t struggle with maintaining hope.

We are still in the middle of a pandemic.

Daily deaths are going up instead of down.

The political chasm is getting wider and nastier,

with no reason to think that will soon change,

even with a new president in office.

Racial injustice is out in the wide open again,

and we see how little has changed.

Around the world dictatorships are getting stronger, not weaker.

The climate is changing faster than we thought.

All of this, at a time of extreme social isolation,

is causing irreparable harm to the mental health of all of us,

and especially the young and most vulnerable.

Sure, we know this will end someday.

We will move past this dark time in history.

But we don’t know what WE will be like on the other side of it.

We are grasping, blindly,

for hope that we are moving toward a better future.

So . . . hope and power.

These are twin concepts.

Joined at the hip.

They occupy the same space.

When I feel powerless,

I will tend toward hopelessness (and resignation).

On the other hand,

when I have some power, some self-determination,

or . . . when I know that the one with power

has my wellbeing at heart,

then I can find a reason to hope.

_____________________

Which brings us to the prophet Daniel.

Daniel is a fascinating book in the biblical narrative arc.

It’s hard to pin down in terms of actual history and authorship,

and seems to be a two-part collection of various material.

The first half, chapters 1-6, is a series of so-called court tales,

stories about virtuous Hebrew characters

finding themselves in the courts of foreign kings,

and navigating life in a pagan empire.

The second half is a series of apocalyptic visions,

that read a lot like the book of Revelation.

Taken as a whole,

this book is an encouragement to God’s people,

to put their trust in God’s power,

and to find hope in seemingly hopeless situations

of persecution, of exile,

when everything is stacked against them.

The book of Daniel pokes holes in the power of kings and emperors,

who . . . when held up against moral power, or divine power,

they turn out to be tragically, and comically, weak.

So . . . relevant and contemporary, no?

Even when I was a little kid, age 6 or 8 or around there,

I remember being confused about King Darius’ power.

I listened to this story about Daniel and the Lions over and over

on a 12-inch vinyl record with a yellow and black cover,

called “Great Stories of the Bible.”

I know my brother Fred, if he’s listening, remembers it well.

Let me play a short sample from that record,

the part that really confused me as a kid . . . [play audio]

I heard that and wondered, how does a king, who makes a law,

not have the power to change the law to save a trusted friend?

Yet, the moment God delivers Daniel,

the king suddenly has the power again to un-make the law.

Didn’t make a lot of sense to me then, and still doesn’t.

But that’s really not our puzzle to solve.

This story shows how the power of God,

unmasks and shames the ego-driven power of human rulers.

It urges us to examine whose power we trust,

and where we place our hope.

Even though Daniel lived in the courts of the king,

even though he had the formal power

that went with being a king’s counselor,

even so, he did not ultimately trust that power.

That is not where he placed his hope.

He placed his hope in the God

to whom every human authority figure has to answer.

_____________________

Granted, that might sound a little simplistic,

and it’s not always easy to distinguish and discern

between heavenly and earthly power.

But it’s always worth asking the question . . .

“In whose power are we placing our hope?”

In the middle of another presidential transition,

we are, as always, liable to misplace our hope.

Being caught in the various power struggles going on right now,

we are in danger of letting our hope—

our deep, undergirding hope—

rest on which way the political winds are blowing.

Believe it! . . . or not . . .

the powers of this world still answer to a higher power.

God does not micro-manage human political systems

when they act like they’re in charge.

But God is nevertheless enthroned, and observant,

and working out God’s cosmic purpose

of justice and righteousness and peace and shalom.

And God invites us, like Daniel,

to play active roles as partners in that mission of shalom.

Those who work against God’s purposes,

no matter how much they bluster or bluff their way through now,

will someday answer for their deeds,

and will answer for their use of power.

And it might not look pretty.

In the Daniel story,

it’s not only the ones at the top being held accountable.

It’s Daniel’s peers, his rivals,

those middle-echelon power figures,

the satraps and administrators,

who have just enough power to want more,

and to misuse the power they have.

We are the ones most like them, if we’re honest.

And in the story,

they were the ones who ended up as dinner for the lions.

King Darius came out looking pretty good,

because he acknowledged his own limitations,

even if it was after the fact.

I don’t know where else in scripture

a pagan king sings a song of praise

about the kingdom of the living God

being greater than his own.

But here we have it.

All that aside, there is something to learn here about hope and power.

Let us not misuse our power, or misplace our hope.

We have the power to do good or ill to those around us,

and to the world.

And we are given access to even greater power,

as servants of the living God.

Knowing that should both

make us humble about our own power,

and give us an unshakable hope.

So let us together, confess our sin.

You will find the confession in the order of worship.

Please join by reading the bold print . . .

and in the moment of silence

one Merciful God, we humbly confess our sin of misplaced hope.

We fail to trust you fully.

We put our hope in things of our own making,

We put our hope in people or systems

we bend toward our advantage.

all Forgive us, Lord, help us place our hope fully and only in you.

one We confess that our misplaced hope leads to hopelessness.

We lose faith—in ourselves, in others, in you.

We believe the worst about ourselves, about others, about you,

We sink into the darkness 

and we cannot find our way back to your light.

all Forgive us, Lord, help us place our hope fully and only in you.

one Restore our hope, O God. 

Strengthen our weak knees. 

Lift up our eyes.

Show us your light and your salvation.

(silence)

one Children of God, we are forgiven, we are loved.

The Lord is our light and our salvation – whom shall we fear?

The Lord is the stronghold of our lives – 

of whom shall we be afraid?

all We believe that we will see the goodness of the Lord 

in the land of the living.

—Phil Kniss, November 29, 2020

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The God who overdoes it

God’s New Covenant
Written on our hearts
Jeremiah 36:1-8, 21-23, 2728; 31:31-34


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The Bible is a story about a generous God.

Generous beyond our imagination.

A God who loves to overdo it,

when it comes to giving undeserved gifts and grace.

A God who is either loved or hated,

for being extravagant.

God overdoes it almost every week in our lectionary.

Remember Jonah two weeks ago?

He was so angry he wanted to die,

because God handed out undeserved grace to his enemies!

Remember the Hebrew slaves in Egypt?

It wasn’t enough for God to simply release them from captivity.

No, God arranged for their oppressors

to hand over all their gold and jewelry,

and beg them to leave.

Remember the widow of Zarephath?

She and her son were ready to lay down and die of starvation.

Then her oil jar and flour bucket refused to go empty,

and she kept feeding herself . . .

and her son . . . and the prophet of God

all the way through the famine.

It’s not enough that God does good.

God wastes goodness and blessing on us.

Lets it spill out everywhere on everyone,

like an overfilled milk bucket sloshing around,

without regard to its precious contents.

God is just, but is not judicious —

not very sensible and prudent and discreet about things.

God overdoes it.

There’s a disconnect between this picture of God,

and the austere Mennonite tradition that formed me,

and maybe some of you—

where we almost physically turn away

from talk about God’s abundance and generosity.

We are frugal and sensible people,

so obviously, God is too.

If we blather on too much about the abundance of God,

it might encourage us to live like

some of our worldly Christian neighbors,

who live lavish lives and are flashy and indulgent

and not-at-all sensible like us.

I actually appreciate this about my tradition.

Because I do think we find

deeper joy and closer communion with God

in lives that are simple and uncluttered

by possessions that tend to possess and entangle us.

But woe to us, if that frugality blinds us

from being flat-out overwhelmed

by our extravagant God who overdoes it all the time,

in grace and beauty and abundance.

God is prodigal, a word that means extravagantly wasteful.

Like the Father in that poorly-named parable of the prodigal son.

Yes, the son was wasteful,

with things he shouldn’t have been wasteful of,

but the Father, the God-figure in the story,

was extravagantly wasteful—

prodigal in love and mercy and forgiveness,

and caught flack for it, of course, from his other son.

Over and over our prodigal God stretches out, in love,

far beyond what God’s bargain with humans requires.

Lesser gods would walk away from the deal altogether.

Yet, after repeated and catastrophic failures on our part,

God just reaches farther for us.

God keeps restarting the missional project

of partnering with us humans for the sake of the world.

_____________________

In today’s text from prophet Jeremiah, God does it again,

in an ultimate act of generosity—

offering to make a whole new covenant

unlike any that had gone before.

This covenant would be written not in legal code,

but on the hearts and minds of the people.

There would be a deeper divine-human communion

that surpassed anything known thus far,

and could not be undone.

There would be a deep knowing, we are told—

“from the least of them to the greatest”

and an everlasting bond

forged by complete and unconditional forgiveness:

“I will remember their sins no more.”

What God?—after repeatedly being spurned—

what God refuses to walk away,

but turns toward those who did the spurning,

offering an even greater gift?

What God does that?

This generous covenant on the heart

came to fulfillment in Jesus,

who embodied God’s extravagant grace and generosity.

In Jesus, God overdid it again,

coming to dwell fully among us

and participate fully in the human experience

including suffering and death.

In Jesus’ own words,

“this cup is the new covenant in my blood,

poured out for you.”

_____________________

Furthermore, God’s radical generosity and abundance

is built into creation itself,

into the seasonal cycles of rest, planting, and harvest.

We remember, on this Thanksgiving Sunday,

that the earth—this planet loved by God—

is an expression of God’s abundance.

Against all odds,

against our continued mistreatment of it,

the earth is still extravagant—

still fruitful, and abundant, and beautiful, and resilient.

The planet mirrors this attribute of God—

of not giving up, not being put off its extravagant mission.

_____________________

Our Jeremiah text is a great example.

I already reviewed the poetic section,

where God promised a new and everlasting covenant

written on the heart.

That’s especially remarkable, given the story part,

and thanks to Valerie, Gabe and Terry for reading it to us.

Remember the book-burning scene in that story,

where King Jehoiakim, God’s own anointed,

ripped up the words of the Lord

and threw them in the fire?

This was not a symbolic protest,

but destruction of costly property.

Long before the days of books and printing,

every manuscript was painstakingly written on expensive

hand-made parchment by highly-trained and patient scribes.

Any scroll was an object of inestimable value,

immense human time and love and skill

were poured into this artful labor.

But the words of Yahweh were so disrespected by the people,

that the king didn’t just throw the whole scroll in the fire—

he stretched out the pain . . . to make it last longer.

Every time the reader, Jehudi, finished reading

another few columns of text,

the king took a knife—a scribe’s knife, it says—

the tool of trade of the one who wrote it—

and cut off the strip of what was read, and threw it in the fire.

Every three or four columns, another cut to the heart.

So what did God do about such disrespect?

Did God take offense and walk away?

Did God tell Jeremiah, “I give up.

I’m going to start over with another people.”

No, God told Jeremiah, “Take another scroll” . . .

Take another valuable scroll!

Write it all down again.

Verbatim. Every single word that the king just burned.

Write it down again.

That’s why God’s promise in chapter 31 is all the more powerful.

“The days are coming,” declares the Lord,

    “when I will make a new covenant with the people of Israel.

I will put my law in their minds

and write it on their hearts.

I will be their God, and they will be my people.

I will forgive their wickedness

and will remember their sins no more.”

_____________________

This, dear sisters and brothers,

is the same God who sent Jesus to come and live with us,

and help carry our burden.

It’s this extravagantly generous God,

who overlooks our grievous offenses,

and says, here, let’s try again.

This time I give you myself.

The ball is now in our court, as to how we respond.

Even today, the gift is ours to respond to.

God is no less extravagant today.

Who are we to who hold back in austerity, or self-preservation,

or fear, or judgement, or unwillingness to risk?

Who are we not to just let go of ourselves,

in extravagant love and grace toward others,

including our political opposites,

including the cultural or religious “other”?

We worship the God came to us in Jesus,

who sat at a table with his disciples,

as he was walking into a deep and dark night of suffering—

said, here, let me give you some more of myself.

Over a cup of wine he told them,

“This cup is the new covenant in my blood,

which is poured out for you.”

What God?

What God does such a thing?

And yet, we repeatedly fail to recognize

the God of extravagance and abundance,

and instead get lost in diligence and duty and fear

and scarcity of grace.

Let us speak aloud our confession.

You will find the confession in your order of worship.

Please respond each time with the words in bold print.

one Every day, we miss noticing God’s extravagant gifts.

Every day, we walk by the color purple,

or green, or yellow, or blue, and we don't notice it.

all Forgive us, and open our eyes.

one Every day, we fail to hear the sound of laughter,

or footsteps, or birdsong, or weeping.

all Forgive us, and open our ears.

one Every day, God’s extravagant gifts surround us

and fill us and connect us with every one and every thing,

and we don’t take in that beautiful truth.

all Forgive us, and open our hearts.

(silence)

one Come and hear what God has done:

Even when we don’t notice,

God’s extravagant gifts continue to surround us

and fill us and connect us with every one and every thing,

showering our lives with grace. Thanks be to God!

On this Sunday before Thanksgiving,

when we celebrate First Fruits generosity and God’s abundance,

we come to the table of plenty.

This posture of God’s abundance is nowhere more evident

than at the Lord’s Table, in our ritual of communion.

Simple elements, but representing a lavish gift.

This communion was established by Jesus

when he and his disciples ate their last Passover meal together.

As it says in Luke 22,

19 And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it,

and gave it to them, saying,

“This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.”

20 In the same way, after the supper he took the cup, saying,

“This cup is the new covenant in my blood,

which is poured out for you.”

May God bless this bread and cup

to our physical and spiritual nourishment.

Let us celebrate God’s abundance together,

even as we are scattered far and wide.

Eat the bread and drink the cup at home,

while you meditate and listen to a song,

“Prayer of Praise,” the last hymn composed by John Horst,

paired with a text by Myron Augsburger,

and sung by Nathan May.

—Phil Kniss, November 22, 2020

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So what does God need from us?

“God’s enduring Kingdom”

2 Samuel 7:1-17

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...or listen to audio:


...or download a printer-friendly PDF file [click here]

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Before I focus on today’s text,

let’s catch up on the Old Testament narrative.

We have to jump over a lot of material,

to get from Genesis to Jesus in three months.

So two weeks ago, the Israelites were in the wilderness,

wandering and wondering who this God was,

and thinking they might be better off with something tangible,

like a Golden Calf.

God and the people sort out their differences,

establish a moral legal framework,

with rituals and practices for worship,

and a portable tent-like tabernacle at the center.

They continue moving from place to place,

eventually conquering whole regions,

and setting up a geo-political base in Palestine.

They did all this without a king.

After Moses and Joshua,

they were ruled by a series of judges.

One of the last and most influential judges was Samuel,

the boy given to Hannah,

in last Sunday’s story.

And there were many other judges.

But the people grew tired of not having a king, like other nations.

They felt low-class.

Other nations had royalty living in huge palaces.

But Israel’s rulers were ordinary people,

and their God lived in a tent.

God finally gave in, allowed Samuel to anoint King Saul,

which didn’t pan out so well,

and the young upstart David was anointed King.

And there’s a whole set of stories

on how Shepherd Boy David—

not even related to Saul—

ended up King David.

Lots of intrigue, and scheming, and violence,

and Saul ends up a one-generation dynasty,

and David sits on the throne of Israel.

And now comes today’s story.

There is a king living in a very fine palace.

And there is still the moveable tent-like tabernacle for God.

And there are prophets who speak for God,

who especially try to keep Kings in line with God’s ways.

_____________________

So in today’s story, David frets over God’s humble house.

He says,

“Here I am living in a luxurious house

made of the finest cedar,

and God is living in a tent.

That’s not right!

God deserves more respect than that!”

Now . . . isn’t that just one of the nicest things a king could say to God?

Wouldn’t God be pleased to hear David say that?

David wants to honor God,

build God a beautiful temple,

so that not only Israelites can see

what a wonderful and powerful and holy God they have—

but also the nations can look at that temple,

and admire, and maybe even come to worship, Yahweh,

the God of the Hebrews.

So God says, “Well, of course, David.

How sweet of you to think of that.

That would be lovely. Go right ahead.”

Actually, God didn’t say that.

The prophet of God, Nathan, said that.

When David brought up the idea,

Nathan, without even bothering to go home and sleep on it,

was so sure that God would want this, too,

that he told David to go right ahead.

It was only when Nathan went home and slept on it,

that God spoke to him quite sharply.

This was his message.

I’m paraphrasing verses 5-16 of 2 Samuel 7.

I’ll call it God’s thank-you note to David.

“Where do you get off wanting to build me a house, David?

I haven’t lived in a house since the day

I delivered you all out of slavery in Egypt.

I have been moving with you from place to place ever since.

I like it in my tent.

Have you ever heard me complain to any of Israel’s leaders,

‘Why haven’t you built me a house of cedar?’

No! Just forget about the idea!

“But while we’re on the subject of houses . . . David . . .

let me tell you this—

I’m going to make your house last forever.

Forever!

You have led my people well.

I have helped you defeat your enemies.

So I will let you rest from your enemies.

And I will build you a house.

Not out of cedar or stone,

but a house, a kingdom, that does not end,

and that will one day save all the nations of the world.

My love will never be taken from you, David,

like I took it from Saul.

Your house and kingdom will stand forever.

“How do you like them apples, David?”

I added that last line.

But the rest of that speech was in the text,

in God’s thank-you note.

This tells me that there was more than meets the eye,

behind David’s seemingly generous offer.

Usually when I read this story

I key in on the idea that God prefers tents over temples,

and David just didn’t realize that.

God prefers we worship in a space

that reminds us we are on the move,

instead of a place that ties us down, or gets institutionalized.

And yeah, that’s part of the story.

But there’s more.

David’s offer was not so generous and self-less.

There something more insidious here.

If David’s political power was to have legitimacy,

he had to have that power underwritten by religion.

It is no accident that in just about every Empire in history,

there is a deep entanglement between politics and religion.

The so-called “Holy Roman Empire” is maybe the most obvious,

but it’s true in

empires ancient and modern, eastern and western.

By building state-sponsored temples and religious institutions

kings and emperors—and democracies—

are better able to influence the theological framework

that supports their own power,

that keeps the status quo in place.

I’m not saying David had a consciously evil scheme in mind

when he made this offer.

But I do think that political psychology played a part.

It’s the psychology of gift-giving that we all know.

If I give you something you really value,

you will feel beholden to me,

and will be more likely to act favorably toward me.

Granted, that’s the dark side.

Many of us give entirely selfless gifts to each other,

just for the joy of giving.

But there is a shadow side.

Especially when there is a power imbalance,

gift-giving is, by definition, a political move.

And in this text,

God recognizes David’s power move,

and cuts him off at the knees, so to speak.

God completely undermines David’s effort to ingratiate himself,

and says,

“No, I won’t accept this so-called gift of a house from you.

But I’ll give you a house and a kingdom,

greater than anything built of cedar and marble,

and that house will last forever and ever.”

God just out-gave David, in the extreme.

The relationship between God and David just got sorted out.

There is no doubt who is serving who.

_____________________

When I think about this dynamic,

between God, and God’s servants (which includes us),

it seems to me this story keeps getting played out over and over.

We like to negotiate with God.

It’s not always a blatant quid pro quo, like,

“God, get me out of this jam, and I’ll do this for you.”

No, it’s more subtle.

How much of our life of worship or prayer or devotion,

is actually done, in part, to curry favor with God?

Is there at least a smidgen of a thought,

when we come to God in prayer or worship,

or in giving our tithes and offerings,

that we are saying to God,

“Look here, God. See what I’m giving to you.

See what I’m doing for you!”

And then secretly, or not-so-secretly,

hope that God treats us in like manner.

After all, God needs our worship, right?

God needs to be shown deference.

God needs our gifts to prove our love.

God needs beautiful houses of worship.

Gives God legitimacy, right?

So we protect our religious houses and institutions and traditions,

out of this warped notion that God needs all that.

When actually, we are using God as an excuse,

to strengthen our own base and power.

If anything can shed us of the notion

that God needs all these institutionalized forms of religion,

it’s a year-long pandemic.

Yes, God deserves our respect and our utmost and humble deference.

But when we push it to the next level,

and try to make our institutions sacred,

it quickly gets out of balance,

and our gifts don’t seem so selfless anymore.

So what does God really need from us?

Well, the religious life is not about us.

It is about God and God’s priorities.

It’s not so much that God needs to see the top of our bowed heads,

in order to be God.

It’s that God needs to know

we are ready to step out and go where God is going next.

We will get nowhere with God, trying to even the score.

God will always out-give us.

There is nothing we can do

to make ourselves worthy of God’s love and attention.

Still, we try. And by trying, fail.

So it is time for us to offer our confession to God,

for the ways we have failed.

You’ll find it in your order of worship.

Please join us in this confession.

one O Generous One, we confess that we underestimate your grace.

God who asks all from us, and gives all to us,

we confess that too often we seek to earn your favor.

all Forgive us, O God. Open our hearts to receive.

one Jesus Christ, Lord of the Church,

Companion on the journey, provider of all we need,

we confess that as a church 

we strive too hard to earn your approval,

and to achieve legitimacy in the eyes of the world.

all Forgive us, O God. Open our church to be 

all that you want it to be.

[silence]

one Our Generous God freely extends forgiveness,

The Lord of the Church offers grace beyond our imagination,

The Holy Spirit delights to be with us, as we are, 

and to shape us into God’s holy people.

AMEN.

—Phil Kniss, October 25, 2020

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