One Light

Luke 2:1-20

Did you ever notice it’s actually pretty dark in the Christmas story?

There probably wasn’t much light in that stable in Bethlehem. Whether it was a cave or a building, an animal shelter wouldn’t have a lot of windows, and might not have much in the way of oil lamps or candles, either.

And the shepherds in the fields that night were working in a darkness that’s hard to imagine for those of us used to electricity.  They probably couldn’t see where they were putting their feet, and had to keep the sheep pretty close to be sure they could keep watch over them all.

Until the angel.

A glory shining so intensely that it was terrifying, almost disabling for people used to the dark.

It’s the only light we get to see in this story: the glory of the Lord shining around the shepherds, while they hear unimaginable news from God’s messenger, and are lost in the whirlwind of an angelic praise chorus.

Just one light, one fiercely bright illumination,

but it’s enough.

When the darkness returns, the shepherds go to Bethlehem.

They hurry, they run, to do something none of them would ever have expected to do: find a newborn infant, see God’s unasked promises come true right in front of them, and start telling their crazy, unbelievable story to anyone who will listen.

All of that in the dark, from one light.

But one light is enough.

Human beings are created to respond to light, you know. We sleep and wake - or fail to do so - by the signals we get from the sun. Light affects vitamins, hormones, and body chemicals that affect our bones, fertility, mood and physical health. Just ask your doctor.

I’m more aware of that right now than usual.  There’s a lot of dark in our days in December, and it’s been rainy and cloudy this month, and my body is literally starving for daylight.

So every morning, I sit in front of a doctor-prescribed light box, getting the phototherapy that manages everything from sleep to pain to appetite and energy - the light that keeps my body working.

It’s a brief, intense exposure, but it doesn’t work if I skip days, or short the time, or push the box too far off to the side.  I’ve had to make it a habit, a practice, an exercise, to absorb that light,

to be open to that light,

and let it change my body for the better.

You may not need a winter light box, but every one of us depends on light, because we’re human, and we need it for energy and health and strength and life.

We can’t do without it, so we need to be open to the light, to be intentional about absorbing it.

Because there’s plenty of darkness to go around.

War,

and the many shades of bomb and gun and economic violence that mark undeclared wars from Chicago to Nigeria to Homs and Mosul and Jerusalem.

Disfunctional government, endangered resources, disease and grinding poverty and painful loss;

grief.

Anger and fear in our political rhetoric, and that pervasive culture of microcomplaints so easily fostered and enhanced by social media and cable news.

A friend of mine commented last week that it’s remarkable that Mary’s response to all the chaos and interruptions and discomfort around the birth of her son was to treasure all this in her heart. Imagine how much easier it would have been to be distressed and dismayed at the inconveniences of a stable birth.

Mary’s Twitter account could have been full of complaints about rude innkeepers; noisy, smelly animals, Joseph’s nervous over-attention or his ignorance about childbirth, the wrong coffee cups, and the eruption of crude and dirty shepherds when she’d FINALLY gotten Jesus to sleep…

Instead it’s one Instagram of the miracle wrapped in blankets and lying in a manger, and a quiet symphony of words and moments that she treasures in her heart.

There’s not much light in this story, but Mary opens herself to it; makes an exercise, a practice, a discipline of absorbing the light. 

Like the shepherds.

Shepherds who weren’t waiting for babies, or news, and probably had more interest in the local politics of land and taxes than in the prophecies of faith or the miracles of a messiah. Shepherds who were briefly washed in exorbitant brightness, and opened themselves to it. Shepherds who absorbed that unasked glory, and shared it.

I was reminded of that last week, when I happened to mention to my cousin Julia that I had to “use my light” to get through the dark days of December. She was impressed by my spiritual depth - for a few seconds, anyway - until I explained about the phototherapy box. You see, Julia is an actor, and to many actors and artists,  light describes a powerful spiritual truth.

The light that artists use is their call to create, the light inside them that demands to be acted on, to be shared.  

“Even when what you’re making is dark,” Julia told me, “even if it’s a very deep purple,” — even, I think, if it’s tragic — it is light.

And when artists and actors use that light, it grows.

“When I’m in a show,” Julia said, “I feel myself getting brighter. When I’m in an ensemble, we pass that light back and forth, and it grows as we share it.”

In just that way, the shepherds passed around the Christmas light, encouraging one another to respond: to go to Bethlehem, to be open to the miracle, to accept the unasked promises so suddenly fulfilled.

Light that grew brighter in them as they shared their story with Mary and Joseph in the stable,

that grew and spread as they let the light spill out of them, telling everyone they met, and amazing them with the miracle, with light, growing brighter, even in the dark;

even when the light itself was dark.

Because, after all, God didn’t become incarnate among us just for the hours of celebration and light. God delights in the joy we share as we remember that birth together, but God also became incarnate because even the darkness of human life — pain, fear, anger, sorrow, death — even the darkness is light when God creates it, lives it, shares it with us.

That’s the miracle of Christmas:

light shining in the darkness,

and darkness that, itself, is light.

All wrapped snugly in cloth,

nestled in a manger,

unexpected and unplanned and utterly glorious.

And all we have to do to be part of the miracle is to open ourselves to that light.

To make a habit, a practice, an exercise, of choosing to soak in the light.

We need that light, and the world needs us to absorb it, and share it; to grow brighter in the sharing, and in the dark.

I have a little Christmas gift for you. A small star that absorbs the light, light which then becomes visible in darkness.

Use it to remind you to keep your eyes and spirit turned to the brief, powerful brightnesses of Christmas: to the gifts, food, music, joy, sparkling trees and houses, rich warm tradition, and the angels’ praise.

Make it a habit, a discipline, to soak in the brief, bright light of Christmas, of God, wherever and whenever that light comes to you in the world.

Treasure it, and ponder it in your hearts.

Absorb that light because then the light of Christmas, the light of God, will be visible in us when we are in darkness

like the shepherds, like Mary, like that tiny, perfect infant.

One light,

which is enough for the whole story, 

now and always.

Every Year

Luke 21:25-36

Remember the super blood moon eclipse in September? Did you watch it? Take pictures? And when you did, did you remember the lunar eclipse in April, and the two last year, and the total eclipse of the sun in March? 

We’ve had a glut of eclipses lately, so I can only draw one conclusion: the End is Near.

It’s what Jesus told us, after all.

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress….” I’m not sure about the stars, but we’ve got the sun, the moon, and the distress on earth, haven’t we?

Paris, Syria, ISIS, Congress, economic woes and worries, the state budget, Laquan McDonald,  protests that sometimes feel like the glorification of criminal activity, protests that sometimes feel like the last hopeless stand for justice, protests where peaceful people get shot, people shot at the doctor’s office, climate change, pre-Thanksgiving snow, and of course there’s more.

There’s always more.

“People will faint from fear,” says Jesus, “panicking from the threats of doom, and then 

they will see the Son of Man coming with power and great glory,”

A shocking thing, that - not the high-production happy ending of the movie.

“But, you - when you see these things begin - stand up, raise your head, your redemption is near.”

These signs are like the budding of leaves, a promise that summer is coming, that abundance and growth and peace are nearly here, right?

So where’s Jesus?
Where’s the redemption, where’s the peace?
Because this year’s eclipses and wars and terrors and upheavals aren’t even the worst we’ve seen in our lifetimes. If blood moons and natural disaster and war are the signs that God’s kingdom is drawing near, it should have been here a long, long time ago.

Every year — every single year — the disasters and the wars and the panic and the signs that God’s kingdom is near. And every year, no end. No glorious, awe-inspiring descent from the clouds, no end of the world, and no happily ever after.

I’d like a refund.

Wouldn’t you?

I’d like to complain about the lack of truth in advertising, demand a different metaphor, a different parable, a more predictive, accurate model than this fig tree, except…

Look at the trees: when they bud, when that bright, temporary green haze spreads over the bare branches, we know that summer is coming, and - even if it snows in April - summer comes. 

It happens every year.  Every single year, and every year, no end.

And maybe - just maybe - that’s exactly what Jesus meant with his advertising - his parable, his metaphor. Maybe the fact that every year there’s war and terror and disaster and distress, that every year the signs keep coming, means that every year, every time, the Kingdom of God is already near.

That God keeps coming near to us, keeps bringing glory, keeps redeeming us, over and over and over and over again, and that that’s why Jesus cares so much that we stay alert.

“Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down, with either partying and denial or anxiety and worry” Don’t get dragged down by the anesthetics the world insists on: by the Black Friday hype that promises we can buy our way into happiness, or by the lure of multitasking, 

or the daily headlines of new worries, new foods to avoid, precautions to take, risks to avoid.

Stand up, raise your heads, welcome redemption, because it’s near.

Every time; 

every single time.

It’s quite a challenge to stand fast, to lay claim to greater confidence and expectation and dignity, when everyone and everything around you is going to insist on ducking, on letting fear and caution take the lead, instead of hopeful, expectant welcome and trust. Honestly, it often seems wiser, saner, to protect ourselves, to worry and prevent, instead of rashly raising our heads, thrusting ourselves into the storm.

To raise your head against a swamping tide of fear is incredibly difficult. We tell hero stories of people who did it: Harriet Tubman, Mahatma Ghandi, Jimmy Carter, Desmond Tutu, Malala Yousafzai, Doctors Without Borders… People who raised their heads and looked toward redemption, in spite of the tidal push to get along, to duck and shelter from the terror of disaster, or the numbness of oppression, or sharp-edged, violent opinion and politics; people who found the reign of justice and grace amidst the signs of disaster and danger and met it with watchful welcome.

Strength isn’t always comfortable, bravery is terrifying, hope requires endless commitment. Jesus knows it’s hard. That’s why he doesn’t want us to try it without praying, without opening our hearts and hands to the strength God wants to pour into us.

The church knows it’s hard. That’s why we celebrate Advent every year, in the midst of the Christmas rush, in the face of the repetitive round of disasters and wars and signs of the end.

We light candles, and teach ourselves to see them as hope, love, joy and peace, to keep our hearts alight within us. We develop patterns of waiting, practicing strength and trust as we eat only one of the Advent calendar chocolates each day. We change our prayers in church to remind us of the God who is always coming, and the people who need our welcome and hospitality now. We read the prophets again to remind us what to look for: for the exiles and outcast being welcomed home, for the growth of living things, for moments of completeness, for renewal, for justice, for joy.

Watching for those things, expecting those things, is what gives us reason to stand fast, to lift our heads, to be filled with trust and openness and welcome when fear and defense and anxiety are so much more common and acceptable and ordinary, even smart.

We need those practices, those sources of strength, of warmth and light for our souls and hearts,

because God keeps coming.  Every year, like the leaves on the trees, every day, like the headlines, God keeps coming to us, drawing near, ready to be welcomed, and accepted, and known.

This Advent, light candles.

Buy the chocolate Advent calendar, read the prophets, say the prayers.

Do that every day — every day that brings new headlines (the same headlines!), new little worries, the same big worries, new tempting indulgences, the same persistent temptations.

Practice Advent intentionally, because your redemption is coming near — this year, every year — and Jesus wants us ready.

And when we are ready - this year, every year - we will, he promises, recognize the savior coming in power and great glory — awe inspiring, not easy, but transformative — and God’s kingdom will bring justice and grace and unimaginable redemption, here in the midst of our familiar mess, as inevitably as summer follows spring.

Praying the Vision

2 Samuel 23:1-7; Revelation 1:4b-8; John 18:33-37

In high school, a friend lent me Douglas Adams’ classic novel, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, and I discovered the science fiction and fantasy genre. Until that time, I hadn’t realized that there was a whole section of the library and bookstore dedicated to stories about the far distant future - to spaceflight and sentient computers - and to magic. 

I found a whole new world of wonder, and I fell in love.

It was only recently, though, that I realized just why I keep reading science fiction - and other speculative or alternate reality novels. It’s because to writing or reading about an interplanetary future, or a world of magic, demands that the author and the reader have an optimistic view of humanity. 

To write about spaceflight - even space battles - in the 23rd century, you have to believe that humanity is going to get that far. To write and read about magic and benevolent dragons, you have to invest in a sense of wonder and possibility. You have to invest in the adaptability and potential of the human race.

Sure, there are some dsytopian sci-fi and fantasy novels, where the alternate or future world is miserable. But I find that they, too, contain the seeds of this human optimism and hope: the subtle, fierce belief that compassion and connection can make a difference even when the worst is happening.

Science fiction and fantasy stories - whether in novels or on the screen - help us to think about the world as it might be, about humanity as we could be, 

to stir us up from being resigned to things as they are.

And today, the church does that, too. Today the church imagines an alternate reality, a future, how the world will be, someday, when Christ is King, and we and all creation are truly governed by God.

We read David’s vision of a world where ungodliness self destructs at a touch, so different from our world - and David’s world - of messy moral conflicts, imperfect choices and shades of gray.

The conversation between Jesus and Pilate that we overhear reminds us of how hard it is to imagine our real familiar world governed by truth instead of self interest.

And the church focuses our prayer and attention today on the vision of Christ returning: stunningly, gloriously, unmistakably, to judge and rule the world, personally and directly

without the familiar intermediaries of religion and nations and systems of law and compromise.

It’s a vision that insists on the redeemability of our common, messy, guilty humanity.

Today, the church practices the same imagination as my favorite fiction genre, investing ourselves in a future that won’t look like what we already know.

We do this because what we believe about the future profoundly affects how we live and act here and now.

When we celebrate the unpredictable future coming of Christ as King, we practice dreaming of a world as it should be, and teach ourselves to live so that we’ll fit in to that different world, and prepare for it to transform our own familiar homes and lives.

The church puts this vision on the calendar once a year, but we pray the vision of God’s kingdom and God’s power and glory every single week. Many of us pray it every single day, or more often. In fact, you probably know this vision by heart:

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come, 

thy will be done, 

on earth as it is in heaven.

That’s us praying for the reign of God, for Christ as king, on earth, in our world, here and now.

Give us this day our daily bread,

we pray that God, that Christ the ruler, will distribute the resources of the world according to needs, not self-interest, or wants, or riches.

and forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us,

we pray for our hearts to be open and generous and freed, to know the incredible release of being forgiven, now, already, the way we want to be when Christ as King judges our actions and intentions and life.

Lead us not into temptation - save us from the time of trial - deliver us from evil,

we pray for protection, for God the ruler, for Christ the King, to do what we ask any government to do:  protect us from the moral murk of temptation and the vivid danger of enemies and evil.

For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory,  forever and ever,

we pray ourselves into proclaiming our commitment to God’s real, present authority and power 

in the future and here and now.

When we truly believe;

when we enter into the story, when we trust the holy imagination of the church and the scriptures and get swept up in the potential and promise,

when we truly believe,

we make that future real by our own actions.

The flip phone — the must-have communications device before the iPhone — became real because Star Trek’s designers created entirely fictional flip-open instant communicators for a short-run TV show 30 years earlier.

We still don’t have flying cars, but do we have the Jetsons’ video chat and self-propelled cleaning robots as everyday conveniences.

Because when we read ourselves in to the story, when we trust the vision

we risk change, venture into new territory,

and see ourselves differently where we already are.

Imagine how that might work with the story we pray.

What if radical forgiveness were as common as mobile phones,

and what if it were as natural as touch screens?

What if living the simplicity of need defined by “daily bread” was as automatic as running a Roomba?

What if our confidence in God’s governance, and power, and glory were so great that we could easily believe that ALL God’s people - of any faith and nation - were our fellow citizens in the kingdom of God?

What if we trusted our prayer for protection enough to spend the $3 to 5 billion dollars projected for the 2016 presidential campaign on creating havens of deep human connection in the midst of our hectic, divided world?

When we trust the vision of Christ the King and allow it to guide our imagination, it will shape what we choose to use and invent and do and share, and that will make a world in which God’s kingdom comes closer and closer.

And so, today, this week,  I invite you to pray that vision and let it guide your imagination, your life.

With each news story you hear or read or watch, pray the familiar words of the Lord’s Prayer.

With every facebook post of joys or complaints, with every email filled with new tasks, pray the vision of the kingdom of God.

When you do the mundane tasks of daily life, when you buy groceries, pay the bills, make the dinner, pray yourself into the story of God’s glory and power.

When you relax: when you read, when you watch TV or movies, when you play, 

pray those words that shape the future, 

because each time, you give yourself another chance, and another, 

to believe, to make it real.

Today, this week, I invite you to enter into the kingdom of God the way you enter a beloved story, to come home to that vision, and believe in its joyful, grace-filled ever-after.