Sunday, November 29, 2020

(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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Sunday, November 22, 2020

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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