Vicar at Mount Olive

Midweek Lent, 2018 + A Cross-Shaped Life

March 14, 2018 By Vicar at Mount Olive

Week 3: The discipline of love

“The Greatest of These”

Vicar Jessica Christy
Texts: 1 Corinthians 13:1-3; John 15:12-17

The church in Corinth was barely formed when things started to fall apart. Economic divisions had appeared in the community. People were anxiously squabbling over which spiritual gifts were the best. There were fights about how worship should be conducted. All around, people were jostling for power and prominence. And so Paul writes to them to remind them what it means to be in community. In his first letter to the Corinthians, he addresses some of their concerns about proper worship, and tries to show them the way forward in their disputes – but here, he gets to the heart of the matter. The problem isn’t that the Corinthians haven’t figured out the proper doctrine; it’s that they don’t know how to live together. They don’t seem to want to live together. They’re so concerned about who’s in the right, who’s in control, that they’ve completely lost sight of why they came together in the first place. And so Paul tells them about love.

This text is famous as a favorite for weddings, and of course it’s beautiful for that purpose, but when Paul writes, he doesn’t have a relationship between two people in mind. He’s talking about love in a community, the love that knits together the body of Christ. This love is a commitment to one another as we try to show the world what the kingdom of God looks like. Even if we disagree with each other, even if we’re in community with people who we don’t naturally like, we’re called to care for one another, and to lift up each other’s needs above our own. We often use the phrase “sacrificial love” to describe how we try to practice love in the church. Our ethics and our theology lift it up as the kind of love that Christ shows us, love that gives of itself for the good of others. It’s good and beautiful teaching – but Paul here tells us that those words, “sacrificial love,” are redundant. He writes that love is sacrifice. It’s that which acts for the sake of others. It does not insist on getting its own way, but rather lowers itself for the sake of treating others with patience and kindness. We say “sacrificial love” because we need the reminder that that’s what real love looks like, but you can’t have love without self-giving. That’s what the Corinthians had forgotten. The Corinthian church was in turmoil because its members were worried about asserting their status relative to each other. They wanted to know who was coming out on top in all their debates – so Paul tells them that, if you love someone, you have to be willing to let that person take the win. You have to let go of your desire to be proven right or get your way. The very notions of winning and losing are foreign to love, because it doesn’t keep score. There is no competition or calculation, only care.

This is so hard to do. It takes discipline, practice. We are social creatures, trained to be attentive to where we stand in relation to others. We hunger for victories and are deeply cut by defeat or insult. We are satisfied when we can assert our will, and we begrudge those who have wronged us. We all experience this in different ways and about different things, but all of us know what it’s like to insist on our own way over others, and to become resentful when we can’t have it. But love means learning to let that go. It means learning to lose, at least by the standards of our world. But in that loss, we discover something far greater and far more joyful than anything our earthly striving could give us. We find each other. We learn what it is to know each other, and to be known. When we’re fixated on who wins and who loses, we cut ourselves off from each other. We can’t be in community when we treat each other as obstacles to be overcome. But when we let that go, when we stop keeping score, we break free of our self-imposed isolation and discover what it means to be one in Christ.

For this is how Christ led his disciples. He taught them that the greatest among them was not the one who could win the most converts or collect the most offerings or perform the greatest miracles. It wasn’t the one who knew the most about scripture or who could pray the most fervently. He taught them that the greatest thing is love, and that the greatest love is in laying down your life for others. He shows us this on the Cross, but martyrdom isn’t the only way that we can die for the sake of others. We follow Christ when we die to our arrogance, to our need to control, to our need to be right. We follow the commandment to love when we let go of our grudges, or our cliquishness, or our hierarchies and dare to simply call each other “friend.” We die to ourselves when we learn to live for each other. When we do this, not only do we follow Christ, but we become the body of Christ, living together in love.

This is the entire reason that we are here on this earth. As Paul reminds us, everything that we value is meaningless unless it is done in love. Deeds that are done without love, even if they look good on the outside, are as empty. The wisest and most beautiful words are, without love, as meaningless as a clanging cymbal. Whatever accomplishments we achieve, whatever virtues we foster, they are nothing on their own, because without love, our actions are about ourselves and our status. Even things like prophecy and faith can be hollowed out until they are nothing more than a way to score points over each other. Paul says that a person could give away all their possessions, even their life, and it would mean nothing if it were done for acclaim instead of done for love. Love is the only thing that is good in itself. It’s what gives all other things meaning.

Love is also the only thing that endures. As Paul tells us, all other things will pass away when they become complete in God. Prophecy, knowledge, hope – they are tools for seeking God in the here and now, but there will be no need for such spiritual gifts when we see God face to face. We will not need to place our hope in God when we know God fully. But love, love is forever. It will not be completed when we are made one with God – it will only be made more perfect. “For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face.” Knowledge and prophecies and tongues are how we peer through that dark mirror, but love is the image shining through on the other side. It is the very essence of God, which God longs for us to know. God who knows us fully wants us to fully know love, here and now. That means learning to lose. It means learning to let go of the things that keep us apart. It means learning to die. But in that death is where we find the abundant and everlasting life that God has planned for us. It’s where we find ourselves, it’s where we find each other, and it’s where we find Christ.

Amen.

God-Given

March 11, 2018 By Vicar at Mount Olive

Moses’ bronze snake was a good gift from God…until it became an idol. That’s what we do with so many of God’s gifts: we worship them as false gods. What are some of the idols ruling over us today? And how can we find our way out of idolatry?

Vicar Jessica Christy
The Fourth Sunday of Lent, year B
Texts: Numbers 21:4-9; John 3:14-21

It began as such a good thing.

When poisonous snakes attacked the people of Israel in the wilderness, they prayed to God for forgiveness and help. God answered their prayers by telling Moses to craft the image of a serpent, and to lift it up high, so that people could look at it and be healed. It sounds strange, but it worked. Everyone who saw it was made well. The aggressive snakes didn’t disappear, but they no longer held the same terror for God’s people. There was now a way forward, leading them out of death and despair.

We know that this bronze snake was dear to the people because the book of Kings tells us that, hundreds of years later, it was still in Jerusalem. Faithful people preserved this vehicle of God’s grace not only through the wilderness, but through the conquest, through the time of the Judges, through years of wars and civil wars until it finally found its home in the holy city. This object, this bronze snake, told the story of those hard years wandering in the desert. It symbolized salvation in the midst of danger and pain. It was a reminder that God’s mercy is always greater than God’s anger. And it was made by Moses’ own hands. Of course it was honored. Of course it was well-loved.

But something went wrong. By the time of King Hezekiah, around the year 700 BCE, the symbol had become twisted into something ugly. People forgot what the bronze snake really meant and started worshipping it as an idol. Devotees burned incense to it, as if this old piece of metal could accept their sacrifices or answer their prayers. They took this good gift from God, and turned it into a false god. So Hezekiah took this sacred object, this symbol of salvation forged by history’s greatest prophet, and he smashed it. It started as a bridge between God and the people, but now it was a barrier, so he broke it into pieces.

It’s a bit heartbreaking that that’s how the story of the bronze snake ends, with idolatry and loss. But isn’t that what we always do? God has given us so many good things in this life for our enjoyment, for our flourishing. Our world is overflowing with abundance and beauty and delight. We are surrounded by good gifts that please our bodies, lift our spirits, and engage our minds. And we so easily turn these things that God has given us into our idols.

Take food, for instance. It is a truly marvelous thing that we can take such joy in nourishing our bodies. Meals don’t just keep us alive – they excite our tongues, stretch our imaginations, and strengthen our relationships. This is pure gift. And yet, we so often treat food as if it is the center of our lives instead of something that serves our lives. How much does our culture teach us to fixate on what we put in our bodies? How powerfully are feelings of virtue and shame tied up in what we put in our shopping carts, as if our worth could be measured by our menus? What if we, as a society, put half as much energy into serving God as we put into thinking about our diets? Because this idolatry comes at a great cost. When we let food become our god, it is not a kind master. It inspires obsession, anxiety, self-doubt. When we turn this gift into a god, it takes and it takes – sometimes until there is nothing left.

Or consider knowledge. God gave us these brains, the wonder of which we are just now beginning to understand, and filled us with endless curiosity. Our lives sparkle with the joy of discovery as we learn to understand the world around us. But then we can turn simply knowing things into an ultimate good. We use it to posture over each other, to glorify ourselves instead of learning to better love our neighbors. Or we treat athletic or artistic talents as though they were the sole purpose of our lives. Or we obsess over our possessions, enjoying good things but then demanding more and more until they own us instead of the other way around. Whatever they are, we all have our idols. Things that God has given us to enjoy on this earth become our ultimate concerns. The bronze snakes that were meant to lead us to healing and wholeness sometimes just leave us more broken.

This is particularly true for the church. How often, in the history of our faith, have we loved our ideas about God more than we have loved God? It seems absurd to think that anything as wonderful and sacred as our theology, or our worship, or our Bible could become an idol – but that’s probably what people thought about Moses’ bronze snake. It is so very easy for us to mistake our tradition for God, and to act as though our specific understanding of faith is the thing that needs to be loved and served. Or we get so attached to our institutions that we can’t recognize when they’re no longer serving our relationship with God. Instead of striving to do the work of the Gospel, we work to defend the things that we have created. Or we become so set in our interpretation of scripture that the words on the page make it hard for us to hear what the living Word is saying to us today. Over and again, we can say we’re worshipping God when we’re really paying all glory, laud, and honor to ourselves and our own work. Again, the earthly things of faith that we love are good, and God-given, and filled with grace – but they are not God. Sometimes we need to put them back in their proper place. Sometimes we might even need to break them apart so we can encounter God anew.

But there is good news here. For all that we turn God’s gifts into idols, God gave us one more gift that we know can lead us safely through the wilderness. It’s a gift that we might misinterpret or misuse, but that can never be corrupted or destroyed. For God so loved the world that God gave the only-begotten Son to show us the way to eternal life. Christ is the greatest gift this world has ever known, and he shows us the way out of all our idolatry. When our longing for certainty and stability turns good things into false gods, Christ shows us that we only find ourselves when we give ourselves away. When our desire for knowledge turns good things into false gods, Christ tells us that God’s wisdom is found in folly. When our love of power turns good things into false gods, Christ shows us the way of the Cross, and empties himself of all the power of the cosmos for our sake. And when our sense of inadequacy turns good things into false gods, Christ shows us that we are loved – absolutely and unconditionally, no matter who we are.

For as long as we are on this earth, we are going to misuse the things that God gives us. We’re going to make sacrifices to false gods. But we know where we can look to see our true God, and we know that when we look to Christ, we will find life. No matter what dangers surround us, no matter how far we have gone astray, we will find life.

Amen.

Midweek Lent, 2018 + A Cross-Shaped Life

February 28, 2018 By Vicar at Mount Olive

Week 2: The discipline of repentance

“Return and Rejoice”

Vicar Jessica Christy
Texts: Luke 15:1-7; Romans 12:1-3, 9-18

There’s this show I love called Adam Ruins Everything. In it, the host, Adam, delights in debunking popular misconceptions with the aim of helping viewers better understand their world. It’s well researched and immensely entertaining. But no show is perfect. Over the course of a few seasons, the writers got some facts wrong. They made some potentially misleading claims. At times, they failed to live up to their mission. So the show decided to run a corrections segment to address the errors. That doesn’t sound out of the ordinary, but here was the amazing part. The host seemed thrilled to accept the criticism. He didn’t push back, or try to defend himself, or lash out at his critics. He simply acknowledged his mistakes with a smile and thanked his critics for giving him a chance to improve. His cheerfulness was refreshing, almost astonishing. It felt like a revelation to see someone so openly admit their faults and promise to learn from them.

Why is that so hard for us? Why is it so difficult to face our missteps with honesty and grace? Why do we feel the need to keep up a brittle façade of perfection when we could instead be seeking the relief of confession and reconciliation? When we do wrong, we love to run away from our misdeeds. It’s deeply unpleasant to feel guilt twisting at our insides, so we push it down and try to deny it. We choose to live with our ugly, secret feelings of wrongdoing rather than exposing them to the light and moving on. Or, instead of hiding: when someone tells us that we’re not being our best selves, we fight back instead of listening to the truth of their words. We are so quick to become defensive when faced with the hard reality of our sin. We mistake critiques of our actions for attacks on our very selves, and so we can’t stand to hear that we’ve done wrong.

Sometimes, our transgressions feel so deep-rooted that we mistake them for an integral part of who we are. Sin worms its way into our hearts and tries to lay claim to our innermost being. We can’t imagine ourselves living lives that are truly whole, or peaceful, or equitable, so we cling to our failures and call them our identity. Individuals do this, when we become addicted to our vices – whether that vice be arrogance, or cruelty, or the misuse of our bodies. But we also do it as a society. We have trouble imagining our nation without inequality, without violence, without war, so we shrug our shoulders think that the way things are is the way they must be. We forget that we are our truest selves when we are living as the image of God, and so calls to repent feel like existential threats. We fear the pain of change more than the pain of the status quo, and so we turn away from the chance to repent and reconcile ourselves with God and one another. When we mistake our sin for our selves, the call to repentance sounds overwhelming. It feels us with terror and shame.

But Jesus tells us that repentance doesn’t have to cause us such pain. Our way back to the right path doesn’t need to pass through denial or anger or self-flagellation. For Christ, repentance is joy. That’s the word he uses. Joy. The shepherd carries the lost sheep home and throws a party for his neighbors. A sinner repents, and all of heaven rejoices. It is a purely joyous thing when any one of us turns from our mistakes and grows closer to God. When we refuse to repent, we are cutting ourselves off from the joy of our Triune God. But whenever we choose to turn towards God, heaven breaks into celebration and welcomes us home.

This joy is always within our reach. We always have a chance to see where we have gone astray and direct our steps back towards God. No matter who we are, or where we are in life, we can in faith renew our minds and discern what God finds good and acceptable and perfect. In Hebrew, the word for repentance quite simply means to turn, or to return. It’s not some single, wondrous transformation that replaces a wretched sinner with a perfect pillar of righteousness. It’s a rekindling of our relationship with God. It’s a rediscovery of who God intends for us to be. Some of us might have that road to Damascus moment, where God appears in a flash of light and forever changes our path. But even then, anyone who has read Paul’s letters knows that that encounter did not forever free him from sin. He still struggled to walk the way of the Cross. As do we all. As we always will.

For as long as we are on this earth, we will remain our fallen selves, and so we will always wander from the path of righteousness. That lost sheep that came home, its feet are probably going to walk away from the herd once more. But the shepherd still brings it home, and delights in its return. If we expect that one magical moment of rebirth will heal and save us forever, then we’re just setting ourselves up for failure. If we think that’s how repentance works, then we’ll fall prey to disappointment and despair when we inevitably stray again. We need to give ourselves the grace to fail, and fail again. We need to have the wisdom to know that we’re going to fall short, and the courage to acknowledge when it happens. Friends, this is hard work. It is uncomfortable, painful, to look at our failures head-on and to work to set them right. But we can do it because we know that God is rejoicing in every step that leads us back to Christ. Repentance is forever ongoing, in every step of our days. And that means that every step is an opening for joy.

The wilderness of sin is not our hearts’ home. We were not made to wander lost and alone. That’s why Jesus speaks of repentance as a return. It is the way back to our true selves, our true relationships, our true place with God. The discipline of repentance is to find joy in opportunities to return to God, even when sin and doubt tell us to replace that joy with denial and shame. It is to always be correcting our course, to constantly be finding the image of God anew in our hearts. Our weeping may last for a night, but God’s joy comes in the morning. The sun is rising, and God is waiting to welcome us home. Return and rejoice.

Amen.

Back Down the Mountain

February 11, 2018 By Vicar at Mount Olive

We all have experiences when God’s presence with us is especially clear. The world briefly shines with heavenly light – but then the moment passes, and we need to make sense of what we have witnessed, and what it has to do with our daily lives.

Vicar Jessica Christy
Transfiguration of Our Lord
Text: Mark 9:2-9

You have to be ready for the week after church camp. That’s what the older kids warned my youth group as we were preparing to go to summer camp for the first time. They promised that it was the kind of experience that was going to change our lives – and that we wouldn’t want to leave when it was over. They were absolutely right. For that week in the Wisconsin woods, I felt closer to God than I ever had in my life. We spent our days reading scripture, discussing our faith, and playing amidst the beauty of nature. And at night, we’d gather around the campfire to sing quiet songs and bare our souls to one another beneath the endless, starry sky. For seven days, it was like we were living on holy ground, where faith and friendship were all that mattered.

And then, it was over. We went home and returned to our regular rhythms and responsibilities. The older kids’ warnings were right: the transition wasn’t easy. After that week of intense, faithful joy, the rest of the world seemed lifeless and unhallowed. I spent the next months longing to return to that sacred place where Christ was so clearly and unapologetically the center of my life. Camp had been so special, and everything else was so ordinary, that it was hard to see what the one had to do to the other. In confirmation, we would reminisce about our summer and ask each other: why couldn’t all of life be like church camp? Why couldn’t we stay in that sacred space?

And so I feel for Peter, James, and John as they’re walking back down that mountain. I can’t imagine how strange it must have been for them to witness the miracle of the Transfiguration, and then return to their work as though nothing happened. On top of the mountain, they see Jesus filled with the light of creation as he is named God’s son. They see the old heroes of their faith walking the Earth. They hear the very voice of God. When Peter sees Christ shining in the presence of Moses and Elijah, he understandably thinks that this is it – the Day of the Lord has finally come. Here and now, all of God’s promises are at last being fulfilled. He wants to crystallize this moment, to build dwelling places for the ancient prophets so they can stay and usher in God’s reign on Earth. He thinks that this is what the coming of God’s kingdom looks like, shining high above the mess of everyday life.

But Jesus has already told him that’s not quite right. In Mark’s Gospel, the Transfiguration is immediately preceded by Jesus’ first prediction of his own death. Jesus proclaims that he will experience suffering, rejection, and death, and then rise again on the third day. Peter is appalled. He pulls Jesus aside and tries to silence him, but Jesus doubles down on his claim and calls on the crowds to follow his difficult way. There will be no path to glory that does not pass through the Cross. So of course the disciples can’t stay on the mountain with Jesus and the prophets. They can’t just escape to enlightenment and leave the rest of the world behind. They might wish it were that easy, but that’s not how God works. The mountaintop isn’t where Christ lives.

So back down the mountain they go. Back to the hard days on the road. Back to the press of the crowds. Back to a teacher who has stopped glowing and gone back to saying that he’s about to die. They have to return to lives in which everything about their world has changed – and yet everything seems the same. They’re not even allowed to tell people what they’ve seen. Maybe they couldn’t put it into words if they tried. It must have been lonely. It must have been hard.

The three disciples had a special revelation, and that means they had a special challenge as they came down that mountain. But their experience wasn’t all that unique. Human beings are so marvelously receptive to beauty and wonder that we all have shimmering moments when God’s presence in our lives is made especially clear. All of us are given glimpses of the Transfiguration. Sometimes it happens in the midst of worship – during a beloved hymn, or at the baptism of a child. For some people, it comes in prayerful meditation. Sometimes it is revealed in an experience of nature, the overwhelming beauty of a sunset or the stars or the sea. Or it is found in art, or a relationship, or something else altogether. Even if we haven’t seen Christ shining on the mountaintop, God invites each of us, in our own ways, to stand on holy ground and witness a flash of God’s glory. That is a marvelous gift, and as Peter says, it is good. But then comes the hard part, when the curtain falls back into place and the heavenly light fades. The moment passes. The world returns to normal, and we have to figure out what to do with what we’ve seen and felt. We might struggle to articulate what happened to us. We might wonder if it was even real. We might long to return to that place where God shone so bright and clear, and wonder why God so often remains hidden from our sight.

But friends, the good news is that the Transfiguration is all around us. It may not be obvious at every moment of our lives, but it is always here. Christ came back down the mountain, back down to us, and the whole world shines with his image. The Transfiguration is not some perfect vision up in the sky. It is not something we have to wait for or search for on some distant summit. It is here and now, illuminating everything. In Christ, all ground is hallowed ground. Jesus taught the disciples to return to the crowds, because the crowds are where he’s really found. We are called seek out and serve the light of Christ in one another.

The Trappist monk Thomas Merton was standing on a busy street corner when he had the most famous mystical vision of modern times. All of a sudden, he saw the people around him “shining like the sun.” He wrote that it was as if he were seeing the crowds around him through God’s eyes, and everyone’s innermost beauty was for an instant laid bare. He realized that the glory of God is in everybody, “like a pure diamond, blazing with the invisible light of heaven…and if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely.” At this vision of light, Merton was overwhelmed with love for these strangers, and only wished he could show them how brightly they shone.

If we follow where Jesus leads, then the path back down the mountain brings us to one another. We witness to the Transfiguration in each other, and when we do so, we are ourselves transfigured. We carry God’s light into the world for each other to see.

Christ is shining all around us. Christ is shining in us. Trust that, and seek it, and you will see that it is true. You will see Christ – everywhere.

By the Spirit

February 2, 2018 By Vicar at Mount Olive

In Luke’s Gospel, the Holy Spirit starts her work through a few chosen people. It’s easy to envy these people their clarity – of course Simeon could be faithful when the Spirit was directing him! – but that same Spirit is filling and guiding us now.

Vicar Jessica Christy
Presentation of Our Lord
Text: Luke 2:22-40

I wonder if Simeon woke up that morning knowing that the day had finally come. When the Holy Spirit tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Now, today is the day,” what was that like? Was it a voice? A vision? A sensation in his bones? What does it feel like to be grabbed by the Spirit?

Because Luke tells us that the Spirit had a special role in Simeon’s life. Not just that, he says it three times in a row: the Spirit rests on Simeon, she reveals to him that he will see the messiah in his lifetime, and when the time comes, she guides his steps to the temple. Simeon has been eagerly waiting for the Christ, but he has been living with the Holy Spirit for a long time. Because of the Spirit, he can live in the marvelous hope that he will witness God’s salvation. Through the Spirit’s eyes, he can see that a poor young couple is God’s chosen family, and that their ordinary baby will deliver his people. And it could only be the movement of the Spirit that builds such instant trust between Mary and Simeon, that she places her newborn into the arms of a stranger. The Spirit transforms his life, his sight, his relationships. Because the Spirit is upon him, Simeon can see God’s reality shining through the surface of the world around him, and that changes everything.

But what the Spirit reveals to Simeon isn’t entirely joy and light. He sees that the arc of this baby’s life isn’t going to be an easy one. He blesses the little family, and then he confirms what Mary already knows: her child is going to bring turmoil into this world. Mighty people are going to be brought low, and lowly people are going to be lifted up. Jesus is going to reveal things that the world would rather keep hidden, and so people are going to resist him, resent him. None of this is news, but then Simeon goes farther. He tells Mary that this turmoil is going to touch her. A sword is going to pierce her soul. This precious, promised baby is going to bring her unimaginable pain. Simeon has seen God’s salvation, and yet he knows that the world isn’t quite saved. Not yet.

This could be reason for mourning or fear, and yet Simeon rejoices, because by the Spirit, he sees through the pain to what lies beyond. There’s going to be hurt and confusion, but out of those wounds will come God’s salvation. He isn’t going to see God’s plan fulfilled, but he’s seen its beginning, and he knows how it will end: with the glory of Israel, the illumination of the whole world, and the healing of the nations. Whatever conflict is coming, the Spirit has shown him that conflict will not have the last word, and so he can depart in peace.

I envy Simeon’s clarity. He’s righteous, and patient, and so full of hope. God has given him this amazing gift of experiencing life under the Spirit’s guidance. Not only does he get to see Christ, but he knows that he’s seeing Christ, and he knows exactly what Christ represents. He’s given such perfect insight into God’s plan, and he fulfills his role so faithfully. And it’s a beautiful story, but it’s a hard one to live up to. Simeon feels like one of those untouchable saints. Yes, of course he knows what to do – the Holy Spirit is giving him personal instructions. Where does that leave the rest of us who are waiting and hoping to see Christ? Because in this fallen world, God’s will for us isn’t always so obvious. We don’t always recognize Christ’s presence, or respond when the Spirit is pushing us to get up and go. When we see all the disorder and ill-will around us, we might falter in our hope that we will ever witness God’s salvation. Not all of us will be able to face death with such certainty or such joy. So what does Simeon’s clear vision have to do with all of us who still see God through a mirror, dimly?

But the good news is that Simeon’s gift isn’t anything special. He might look exceptional, but that’s not the story that Luke tells. Throughout Luke’s Gospel, the Holy Spirit is hard at work transforming the world – and she does start with certain chosen individuals. She fills Mary and John the Baptist. She leads Simeon to the temple. She greets Jesus at his baptism, guides him through the wilderness, and enlivens his teaching. But then, at Pentecost, everything changes. The promise that God made to the prophet Joel is fulfilled: “I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh.” Tongues of fire appear over the apostles, and through them, the Spirit fills the assembled crowd. And from there, she spreads like wildfire. When Peter is speaking to a group of Gentiles in Caesarea, she falls on everyone who hears the word. The circumcised believers are astounded by this, but Peter asks them, “Can anyone withhold the water for baptizing these people who have received the Holy Spirit just as we have?” The Holy Spirit is setting the whole world ablaze, and nothing is going to stand in her way.

That same Spirit is in us now. We might not experience that in the same way as Simeon, but our gift is no less than his gift, and we are just as empowered to see this world through Spirit-filled eyes. Like Simeon, we can see through this world’s appearances to recognize God within. Where the world shows us despair, the Spirit shows us hope. Where the world shows us strangers, the Spirit shows us beloved siblings. Where the world shows us the least of these, the Spirit shows us Christ. And where the world shows us death, the Spirit shows us abundant new life. We’re still waiting for God’s plan to be fulfilled, but like Simeon, we know how this story ends. We know that peace and life and love win. That’s not what our senses tell us. That’s not what politics or science or even common sense say, but it’s what our faith tells us, and by the Spirit, we can believe that it’s really true. And that means that we get to carry that truth, that reality into the world.

Like the candles that we carried in tonight, we all bear the Spirit’s flame. Even if we doubt, or falter, or fail to recognize God’s call, the Spirit has been given to each of us, and she will never leave us behind. Even now, she is filling us with the light of Christ for all the world to see. So with Simeon, we can proclaim: look, Christ is here. God is now healing the world. Come and see for yourself. Come and find God’s light. Come and find God’s peace.