Often we might feel hopeless when we look at the state of the world; but throughout time Wisdom has searched for her home and found it amidst similarly hopeful and bleak times. Wisdom has made her home in us and transforms our hearts and minds to see hope where it appears there is none.

Vicar Natalie Wussler
The Second Sunday of Christmas, years A, B, and C
Texts: Sirach 24:1-12; Wisdom 10:15-21; Ephesians 1:3-14; John 1:[1-9], 10-18

Beloved in Christ, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

When we’re faced with hard times, conventional wisdom says to batten down the hatches. To disregard hope for restoration and goodness for all and to focus on what we had control over. 

Right now, that kind of wisdom makes sense. it doesn’t feel like there’s much hope for restoration and goodness. There’s not a lot of faith in our country. And everyday, trust in our fellow humans degrades more and more. Just look at our first few days of 2025 and the war and terrorism, the increasing violence and discrimination we bear witness to. We’re still anxiously anticipating the kinds of terrors our country will endure in the next 4 years and beyond. And each of us are still going through our own pains–like grief, loss, insecurities. We each are constantly being faced with lofty problems with no easy solutions, and we can start to feel powerless. Like the Israelites standing at the banks of the Red Sea, we’re terrified of the roaring waves of chaos and brokenness and sometimes see no way forward. It’s paralyzing and isolating and sometimes we just want to throw in the towel and give up. 

But that’s where God’s Wisdom comes in most powerfully. Because God’s Wisdom gives us the hope to take steps forward when the path is unclear. Wisdom helps us make sense of the world and how we play a role in its healing. Wisdom is a force that pushes us forward when it all feels like it’s too much, that makes a way where there appears to be no way. Wisdom gives us vision to see the world like God sees the world.

So it begs the question–how does God see the world? Going back in Sirach, Wisdom searched high and low to find a home, from the vaults of heaven to the depths of the abyss. No spot was a resting place until Wisdom found the Israelites in the wilderness, an underdog kind of people searching for their home, too, in a time where the threat of empires loomed large. These people were starting to understand who they were as God’s holy people, and getting it wrong more often than not. But Wisdom saw the Israelites as a worthy place to pitch a tent and the Spirit of God rested in the tabernacle, dwelt with the people, and poured out love.

And then, this Wisdom became flesh and dwelt as a person. God put on flesh. God dwelt, literally pitched a tent, amidst us. Tabernacling amongst the people in flesh as God once did in a tent in the wilderness. The Word and Wisdom of God, which existed with God at creation, became a human in a world that was broken, experiencing the crushing grip of the Roman empire, where the poor and vulnerable were marginalized. God saw this world for what it was–all its flaws and all its suffering, all its proclivities toward greed and violence, and still saw a world worth taking on flesh and all it means to be human; a world worth deep and personal love and sacrifice. And through living and dying as a human, Jesus made a way for the Holy Spirit to dwell within each of us. Out of God’s fullness and love for the us, we receive grace upon grace that is the Holy Spirit. Through our baptism, God freely gives us the Holy Spirit, who pitches her tent within us. And this same Wisdom that rested in the tabernacle and was enfleshed as Jesus now abides within each of us. In all our brokenness and suffering, in all the ways we believe we are unqualified bearers of God’s Spirit, in all the ways we believe we don’t measure up, God sees us as worthy homes for the Holy Spirit. We are each tabernacles of God’s Spirit and Wisdom, and everywhere we go, the Spirit and Wisdom of God also goes. 

Instead of giving up hope, Wisdom gives us hope. Despite all the brokenness we witness, Wisdom still sees people who are worth loving and who are worth the risk of living. And Wisdom chooses each of us to do this work. And when we let Wisdom change our hearts and our minds, we see this world, yes, for all its pains and its bleakness, but we also see people worth loving, we see places worth healing, and good work worth doing. As mini tabernacles, we are bearers of healing and love to our weary world. And just as the Word became flesh, each time you act in love, compassion, justice, you are now making simple words flesh. You’re embodying the Wisdom of God in your life, in this community. Wherever you pitch your tent and dwell, you are enfleshing God’s Wisdom and you are bearers of self-sacrificial love. You bring the reign of God we all seek a little bit closer.

And there will still be days that feel hopeless, days where it feels like the powers of evil, greed, and destruction have the upper hand. Days where we believe we aren’t good enough to be bearers of God’s love and Wisdom and days where the love we bear hurts. And on those days, we can rely on the Wisdom that’s made its home in us to carry us, to catch glimpses of hope, promising that the painful things are not the last things.

And in those moments we’ve been given this Holy community. It’s not a coincidence that the writer of Sirach says Wisdom’s glory is found in the midst of her people. We need each other. We need each other’s stories and we need to hear about the wisdom each of us have learned through our individual journeys of faith. These stories are sacred and they are medicine to a tired and weary soul. Our shared wisdom creates resilience. It gives us the vision to see the roaring seas in our way, and the hope to believe that a path will be made and that God will meet us there. And when we as communities full of wisdom come together, share our stories, and spur each other toward love, we become the enfleshed hope we all crave. A hope that can heal a world worth loving.

In the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Jesus took on what it means to be human and all the beauty and pain associated with that. Jesus knows our pain and gives us permission to not hide from our humanity.

Vicar Natalie Wussler
Christmas Day
Texts: Isaiah 52:7-10; Psalm 98; Hebrews 1:1-4; John 1:1-14

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Yesterday, we marveled at the baby being born in the darkness of night. At the angels who sang songs of peace on earth. And of shepherds who ran from their flocks to greet the infant, and that risky love that reverberates through this beloved Christmas story. And today, John gives something very different. “The word became flesh and dwelt among us” John says. These words aren’t just some interesting theological point that we can have debates over. These words are life-changing reality. The Almighty and everliving God who had spoken to people through angels, through kings, and prophets to connect with people is now, God gets personal. God didn’t send a messenger from afar to declare God’s word, nor did God show up as some transcendent spirit. The Word of God, who has had skin in the game since before time began, put on skin and reached out to us in a new way.

“And the Word became flesh,” John says. These four words are the wonder of Christmas. That Jesus, the very radiance and representation of God’s being, would put on flesh and become fully human. He was the visible expression of the invisible God, speaking to us in a language that we could understand, identifying with the frailties and the tragedies of humanity. God was getting up close by becoming a person. The omnipotent, in one instance, was breakable. God who was larger than the universe became an embryo that gestated in a womb for 9ish months, amidst amniotic fluids, and was born as an infant. This word, the one that sustains the whole world, chose to be dependent on a young girl for everything. And this holy and saving arm of God transformed into a baby’s grasping hand. Jesus took on everything that the flesh entails, weariness, thirst, joy, and the full pallette of human emotions complete with laughter and tears. 

“And the Word lived among us.” Jesus dwelt in the world, “moved into the neighborhood,” as Eugene Peterson of the Message Bible translation says. Jesus was not an observer of this human story. He fully stepped into our world–this messy, painful, and beautiful world. This world that hurt Jesus in the same way as it hurts many of us. He felt the pain of rejection and abandonment. Jesus knows the sting of death and grief. Jesus has been there. And now, we know God through the way the person of Jesus lived in this world, the people he loved, and the stories he told, the gruesome death he suffered, and the resurrection of his human body.

God was not afraid to be a human. But the same can’t always be said for us. Because in so many ways, we hide our humanity. We hide the things that make us look weak. We cover our wrinkles and blemishes with anti-aging cream. We deny ourselves rest in favor of pushing through to get the job done. And sometimes we’re not honest with ourselves or each other about how hard this life really can be. And especially at this time of year, when families gather, holiday lights shine in shades of neon, when radios blare holiday music that commands us to “have a Holly Jolly and Merry Christmas,” being honest with ourselves, and with our pains is just that much more difficult. We fear exposing our shortcomings, and hide them away for no one else to see. We build up these walls that separate us from each other, and we all end up feeling like no one else understands our pain.

But God-made-flesh and dwelling with us says that we worship a God who knows all that makes us feel weak and knows our pain, that fear, that we want to keep close to the vest. Jesus looks at you in everything you go through and whispers through tear-stained eyes “me too.” Jesus, being part of the trinity, takes his experience as a person and brings it into the heart of the Triune God. We have an empathetic God who gets us and all of the tragic and weird, and beautiful parts of being a human.

So today, if you are approaching this afternoon or this week anxious that you won’t be accepted as you are by people who are supposed to love you, Jesus gets it.
If you are looking forward to leaving this place and spending your day wrapped in the warm arms of love, Jesus gets it.
If you are feeling alone or rejected this Christmas season, Jesus gets it.
If you are despairing about the state of this world, Jesus gets it.
And if you are doubting if God is even listening to you, Jesus gets it.
Jesus has been there. 

This God-child we witnessed being born last night can relate to all we go through. We don’t have to hide ourselves. We can come out of the shadows and experience the healing that is found in the word-made-flesh. We can bring everything to God, Our pain, our brokenness, and our vulnerability, and trust that Jesus will meet us there where we are, saying “me too” and walking with us through all our days.

Last night, as the lights dimmed and the church was all shadows, one candle shined, and slowly, more candles ignited and the room was brighter. We could see each other. And that’s what happens when we are honest with ourselves and each other. And as we are empowered to be vulnerable and share our stories, the, empathetic God who weeps and laughs and is tangible embraces all the parts of us that are human and and then we realize that the world needs those parts of us. This world needs our stories. So we can come out of hiding and live as our authentic selves. And we, too, can look through tears at the other, and be vulnerable, and whisper “me too,” and call each other out of hiding to assure each other that we’re not alone. And no amount of secrecy, shame, or suppression can overcome the love that’s shared when communities of people live in vulnerable authenticity and all are accepted with open arms. We can encourage each other and release God’s empathetic love for us into the world, one vulnerable moment at a time, following in the footsteps of the Word-Made-Flesh.

In the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Joy overflows from God’s own heart, through us, and to the whole world. It’s always accessible to us. Joy is a way we can resist the powers of evil and darkness. 

Vicar Natalie Wussler
Third Sunday Of Advent, year C
Texts: Zephaniah 3:14-20; Isaiah 12:2-6; Philippians 4:4-7; Luke 3:7-18

Beloved in Christ, grace to you and peace in the name of ☩ the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Rejoice in the Lord always, again I say rejoice!” 
“Shout aloud and sing for joy!” 
“Rejoice and exult with all your heart!”

Our scriptures sing praises full of joy that sound good to our weary hearts. When joy finds us, it is a welcome guest. It reminds us that there is good and love and beauty in this world. It gives us an abiding sense that we are loved and held as we go through life. Joy shows up in so many ways—in the love shared between friends and family, in a meal that reminds you of how good food can really be, in twinkling Christmas lights that color night sky, in our pets, in people acting with kindness to each other, in the nature, in that still small voice that shows up when it has no business to and assures us we’ll make it through whatever chaos we’re facing. Joy exposes a glimpse of God’s reign and fills us with a hope for the fullness of God’s presence on earth.

But joy is elusive and fleeting. Here one moment and gone the next. And as much as we want joy to be an ever-present guest at our table, it can often feel like a long-distant friend. And this world gives us more than enough reason to pay joy no mind as we go through the motions—surviving one heartache to the next. We are surrounded by evil and death and these glimpses of God’s reign on earth can become reminders of how far we are from it. We know God is working in the now, but we long to witness the restoration of all things that will happen in the not yet and we become weary in the waiting. We long to know a world without shame, without oppression or grief, without violence, without insecurity and sickness, without greed. We desire a world that is safe, one where all people live in peace, where everyone has what they need to lead abundant lives. But often that kind of world feels so far away from us, and so does joy. How can a world like ours ever rejoice?

Our texts are shining lights in our weariness. Because none of them are written when we’d expect joy to show up. Isaiah proclaims joy to Israelites around the time of the exile. Zephaniah spends the most of the book warning of God’s judgement and then pivots to promises of joy and deliverance in these last few verses of the book. And Paul writes to the Philippian church in prison but is completely assured in God’s love. Where is their joy found?

Zephaniah says the rejoicing begins in God’s own heart. “The LORD will rejoice over you!” “God will exult over you with loud singing!” We increase God’s joy. God delights in you and me, and all those who are chasing God’s path of love and mercy. God’s joy is overflowing and spills over to us. And we can lean on the Triune God to fill us up with this contagious joy, one that is not fleeting. It’s always near because God is always in our midst. God rejoices first and gathers people into God’s own heart and embraces everyone, even the outcast. No matter what this world says about you, and no matter what you are facing, God comes near to you and joy is always accessible to you.

“Rejoice in the Lord, always,” Paul says. Always. Joy, for Paul, doesn’t depend on what’s happening in our lives. Paul is a prisoner of the Roman empire, with death looming as an ever-present threat. And yet, he rejoices and does it “in the Lord.” Paul is drawing from the joy that begins in the heart of God and brings it to every part of his life. Paul’s joy is cultivated by the ways God has faithfully sustained him, most notably through people. For Paul, joy is not something we wait to happen to us. It’s an act of resistance against the powers of evil and death. It’s not about rose-colored glasses or finding silver linings. Joy does not negate our suffering, it sustains us through everything and says that our weariness does not have the final say. We can always carry joy with us because we’re rejoicing in the Triune God. And no matter what is happening around us, Paul says we always have reason to rejoice. Because we can turn to God in everything. This joy moves us to thanksgiving even when we don’t know what’s going to happen. Because we lead first with confidence that we will be supported and sustained in many and various ways by the One who is faithful. This joy nourishes us with the peace that surpasses all understanding and casts out fear, because we are drawn into a deeper relationship with God. This is the tenacious joy that gets people out of bed in the morning. It’s food for the journey, even on the hardest days.

“What, then, shall we do?” the crowds ask John the Baptist. And though John’s delivery about how to live a life of faith transformed by the Holy Spirit is harsh, his words give us a guide on what to do with our joy. Overflowing first from God’s heart through us, we pour out this tenacious joy into the whole world. And it can start simply, by sharing whatever you have, whether it’s a coat, food, words of encouragement, a shoulder to cry on, or even a smile shared with a stranger. With each small act of love increasing the joy in others until all people are able to bask in the joy of God.

In this season of Advent, we are a people who are waiting. Waiting for the fullness of God to be born in this world as a baby. We’re waiting for an inbreaking of God’s reign. And this waiting can leave us weary. But joy tells us that God’s reign is brought to birth through each of us. We become active participants in the joy and hope that we long for and essential agents of restoration in this world. And that’s how our weary world can rejoice. Through outstretched arms and coats shared. Through hope against all odds. Joy is not far away, it’s right here. It’s waiting to be grasped, lived out, and given to all people.

In the name of ☩ the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.