sermon – Page 12

God-Made-Human

December 25, 2024 By Vicar at Mount Olive

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.

Love Is Risk

December 24, 2024 By Pr. Joseph Crippen

God risks everything – being wounded, even killed – to be able to bring healing and life to you and the whole creation.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Eve of the Nativity of Our Lord
Text: Luke 2:1-20

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

When you have been wounded, you can bring healing.

I’ve been in a spiritual direction group with three other pastors for 26 years now. We meet monthly with our spiritual director, have shared our lives with each other, helped each other heal.

Once I was sharing something painful that I was going through. I worried that maybe it was too much, even in that group. But I looked at my friend – one I admire and respect so much – and I saw tears in his eyes. And I knew without words that he absolutely had known the same pain, and I was going to be OK.

When you have been wounded, you can bring healing. This is the heart of love. And it’s the heart of God’s coming as one of us.

The beautiful writer and theologian Madeline L’Engle wrote a poem ^[1] wondering about risking bringing a child into this world.

“This is no time for a child to be born,” she writes, “With the earth betrayed by war & hate.” So many young people today ask that, if they should even consider children. And God faced the same question 2,000 years ago, L’Engle says in the second stanza: “That was no time for a child to be born, / In a land in the crushing grip of Rome; / Honor & truth were trampled by scorn.”

But her final stanza asks the true question: “When is the time for a child to be born?” There’s always hatred and oppression and violence and threat. But then there’s her final line: “Yet Love still takes the risk of birth.”

That’s God’s answer to the question. It’s never a good time. But God’s Love will risk birth anyway.

And that’s what brings us together tonight.

God risked being born as a helpless child in the midst of a violent, hateful world. God’s Love decided to risk birth, not in spite of the dangers and threats. But because of them. Because when you’ve been wounded, you can bring healing. God can’t stay distant if God is hoping to bring healing to you and me and all people, to this frightened and broken creation. God has to come here and risk.

God needs to experience human pain and suffering, know it intimately, be scarred by it, bleed of it. Even die for it. Because then we can look into God’s eyes in our pain and suffering and see tears that know what we’re facing. Tears that have already been shed before. Only by entering our pain can the God who made all and loves all, becoming vulnerable, able to be wounded, open a path to healing and hope.

And it’s how you and I will bring healing to others.

Once we’ve gone through pain and found God with us, now we can be healing hope to others. If we risk that. If we are willing to be vulnerable with each other and with those we meet. It’s a huge risk. But love risks, because it’s the only way to healing.

You have shed tears, you’ve bled, had a broken heart, you’ve known fear and grief and dread. When you fully embody that truth, your heart, your woundedness, your sadness, your fear, and risk sharing that with others, you are God’s healing.

You see, love risks on both sides. Even if you’re the Triune God.

God’s Love risked coming to us here. But God also trusted that our love would take risks for this child. Love goes both ways.

It’s time to let go of the legend of Mary and Joseph turned away at the door and wandering to find house room in a stable. It’s one we love, especially when remembering the many who are driven away from doors in our world, but it didn’t happen. Luke says there was no room for them in the “guest room.” “Inn” has never been a good translation. Luke knows the difference because in Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan, he takes the wounded man to an inn. It’s a different word.

And that matters, because God’s risk of love was greeted by a welcome of open arms, by people who were suffering themselves under oppression and poverty. No one would refuse hospitality then, let alone to a couple ready to bring a child into the world. Certainly relatives wouldn’t, which Joseph certainly would have come to.

No, Aunt Betty and her brood were already in the guest room, so Mary and Joseph were welcomed into the main room of the house where everyone slept, where the family’s few animals were brought in for the night. Jesus was in a manger off the floor so he wouldn’t be rolled on.

And Mary was surrounded by women who knew what to do, who made sure this child arrived safely and was washed and warm and welcome. They even had swaddling cloths ready, Luke says.

This is how God always hopes it will work – love risks in both directions, is wounded in both directions, and can heal in both directions.

So let’s risk love.

Let’s risk it all. Open up and trust that through our shared pain and joy and fear and hope we will find healing and life together.

When you’ve been wounded, you are able to bring healing. Even if you’re the Triune God. That’s God’s gift to you and the creation, and God’s invitation to all, so that in our shared risk, our shared love, our shared vulnerability, hope and healing might finally come to this world and bring life.

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

Blessed Ordinary

December 22, 2024 By Pr. Joseph Crippen

Incarnation is God in you and me, everyday human people whose only call is to be everyday human people who love and care for the world.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Fourth Sunday of Advent, year C
Text: Luke 1:39-45

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

There was a knock at the door.

The elderly woman who looked like a grandmother, except for the very prominent bulge at her midsection pulled herself out of her seat and went to open it. She saw a young girl there, tired and dusty from a weeklong journey.

“Oh, honey,” Elizabeth said, drawing Mary into her arms, “I’m so glad you’re here. Come in and rest. I’ll get you something to eat.” And so began a long time of peace for both women, taking walks, resting, eating, talking, listening. Two women facing pregnancy and the mysteries of their changing bodies, one too old to be doing such a thing, one too young to know what it was going to be like.

At lunch one day, Elizabeth chuckled. “It’s funny how the minute I opened the door my baby jumped. I wonder if he knew who was there.” A little later she added, “I don’t get how its possible I’m sitting here with the mother of my Lord? Never expected that.”

With all due respect to Luke, this feels truer to what this visitation was. Two women, one too old to be doing such a thing, one too young to know what it was going to be like, sharing the experience together. But Luke is so focused on the divine beginnings of these two boys, he coats the story in a gloss of mystery and wonder, polishes up their plain words into lofty poetry. So we see these two women more for the boys growing inside than for what they’re actually doing.

The boys will have their day. But today let these women speak for themselves.

Because they show the heart of this visitation: ordinary human need.

When we think only of Mary’s child, we forget the ordinariness of it all. We get all theological and mystical and wonder, “what was it like to have God’s child growing in you?” For Mary, the identity of her baby is certainly a piece of the puzzle. But what she’s got to face first is simply human: pregnancy.

Her mother must have suggested she visit Elizabeth. She could have coached her daughter through the early days of pregnancy, as she did the last two thirds of it. But Mary goes on a 90 mile journey to Judea to Elizabeth almost as soon as she’s pregnant. Elizabeth must be something like Mary’s great-aunt, and likely the wise one Mary’s mother trusted most in the world. “Go see Aunty Elizabeth,” she must have said. “She’ll help you start sorting this, and then you can come back and face what’s ahead.”

Again, with all due respect to the writer of our Hymn of the Day today, I don’t think Mary ran “to greet the woman who would recognize her boy.” Mary ran to find the woman who would hold her and give her wisdom and space and guidance and love.

This is true incarnation: God is with us in each other in our ordinary lives.

These two spent three months together so they could do what was ahead of them. Mary left just before Elizabeth went into labor. She was ready to face what she needed to do back home. And Elizabeth was ready to face what was likely to be hard at her age.

God’s life is lived in and through you and me. But we need ordinary human care to help us live that life. People with experience who can walk with us and help us see the road ahead, people who can listen to our fears and concerns. Embrace us and invite us in for food and drink and peace.

That’s why so many of us need to be part of a community of faith. Like Mary, we need to be with people who understand, who help and support and love us, ordinary, regular people who know what it is to bear God in the world and to be human.

Today’s story’s not about the divine children. It’s about two human mothers.

Mary doesn’t need to learn to be the mother of the Messiah yet. She needs to learn to be a mother. She needs to learn to care for her body for nine months, to prepare for childbirth, to get ready for rearing an infant and then a toddler and then a child and then a teenager. She needs help with all that anxiety and fear. She’s got plenty of time to ponder the divine implications in her heart, and Luke says she takes that time. Certainly some of her conversations with Elizabeth were about God’s child. But mostly now she needs to face the very human things God needs her to do.

Like you. Whatever God needs of you, whatever love you are asked carry into your life, it’s not a mystery surrounded by angelic light and song. It will be normal, ordinary, human things you do. Loving, reaching out, being kind. Sharing your abundance with others, as Elizabeth’s boy will one day tell people by the banks of the river. Praying for those who do evil, loving even those who persecute and hate, as Mary’s boy will one day tell you.

Amidst all the pain and suffering of the world, the things none of us know how to fix, the oppression and evil that seems to be rising where more often than not we feel helpless, in all of that, God says “I just need you to be a loving human. And that will make a difference.” And so we help each other.

It starts with a knock at the door.

So let’s be good to each other and open up and help each other be loving humans.

God has chosen to work in you, in me, in all people for the life of the world. Just ordinary, living, breathing humans whose love and grace and generosity and courage and risk-taking and kindness can change the world.

Have a seat next to Elizabeth and Mary and they’ll help you figure why that’s such a joy.

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

The Weary World Rejoices

December 15, 2024 By Vicar at Mount Olive

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.

So that . . .

December 8, 2024 By Pr. Joseph Crippen

All these calls to purification and repentance are invitations to let God transform you and me and the whole community into a life of shalom for us and for all things.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Second Sunday of Advent, year C
Texts: Luke 3:1-6; Malachi 3:1-4; Philippians 1:3-11

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

Shalom.

In Hebrew, that means “peace.” But also wholeness and health, completeness, safety, even friendship. To be in shalom is to be in a life-giving and gracious way of life. Little wonder our Jewish cousins greet others with “shalom.” As our Muslim cousins do with the Arabic “salaam.”

Jesus often spoke of such a way of life, and once he used a different word, “blessed,” to envision it. To be blessed is to be gentle, he said, to hunger and thirst for God’s righteousness, to be merciful. To be pure in heart and to be someone who makes peace. Even those who grieve or are persecuted find blessedness in God’s comfort and mercy, he said. Jesus envisions a blessed world radically shaped by shalom.

A world our readings today invite you to find. To live in. To become.

All this talk of purifying, of landscape flattening, of repentance, has a great “so that . . .” at the heart.

These calls all lead to shalom. God’s people need to be purified, Malachi says, so that their worship and offerings to God come from a good heart, from their love of God and neighbor. Before the exile God’s prophets criticized that they did all the worship and offerings but lived corrupt lives, oppressed their poorer neighbors, turned a blind eye to injustice. So for their worship, their offerings, to be pleasing to God again, they need to be purified into their true selves. Brought into blessed shalom again.

John’s call to repentance is about leveled mountains and filled in valleys, massive highway maintenance. God’s people are asked to repent – literally to turn their lives around – to clean off the roads, make sure everything is straightened out. So that they are walking paths of blessed shalom with God.

That feels much more hopeful than we usually feel from John the Baptist’s annual visit.

Purifying sounds frightening. Ore is taken into a blazing furnace and heated until the precious metal is drawn out in its pure state. If God is purifying us, it sounds like it will hurt. Burning away what is broken and bent in us that pulls us from God. But if God is working toward shalom, blessedness, purifying us to be our true precious selves, whole and well and at peace and merciful and gentle, to be peacemakers and makers of safety for others, that sounds really good.

And getting out the bulldozers and graders sounds frightening, too. What massive work does God need to do in me to make me different? But if God wants to straighten what is crooked so I am complete and whole, so I can walk God’s path of shalom as God’s blessed one, that sounds really good, too.

The key is, God is doing all this.

Paul joins John and Malachi together in a huge promise of that hope. God began this work in you, Paul says, and God will continue to complete it in you until the day of Jesus Christ. This purifying and landscaping leading to shalom is God’s gift, and God’s been working it in you from the beginning.

And no surprise, Paul says there’s a big “so that” here, too. God does this, Paul says, so that your love might overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight, to help you determine what really matters.

What really makes shalom. Blessedness.

And remember: Paul says God’s work is a long-term project.

God will continue to complete it until the end of all things, Paul says. But it will take all that time. You’ll be repeatedly turning around on your path. Because you’ll get lost and take false turns. You’ll need God’s purifying of various things again and again. Because it’s going to take time to draw you into the precious beauty God already sees.

And you’ll need God to do roadwork again and again. Roads in the desert sand over daily, and daily need clearing. Just as a shoveled sidewalk drifts over again, and you need to shovel it again. The path of Christ, the path of shalom, is easily blocked, and needs daily attention until your days are done.

God will complete you. But it will take time.

There’s one more thing, the best part: it’s not just on you.

Paul speaks to all the Philippians, so God’s working in their community to bring shalom, together. Malachi sees all God’s people as being purified. John calls all the crowds to repentance. This isn’t an individual thing. Shalom isn’t lived apart from others. Blessedness is only found in life together.

It starts with the individual. It’s hard to find shalom with others without finding it in ourselves. But it can’t exist there alone. So your faith, and my faith, your discipleship and my discipleship, your repentance and my repentance, God works together in this community until we become a blessed community of shalom.

And you see where this is going. When community after community are so turned, purified, transformed, eventually all God’s children everywhere find this joy, this blessed shalom of God.

So this is a day of Good News.

Repentance, turning toward God, is a gift to delight in because in turning you find shalom. God purifying your heart and mind and spirit, though sometimes painful, is a joy to relish because even you start to see the true you arising. Clearing the path for you to walk as Christ is a treat because even though it’s annoying to have to keep at it, when God does you walk in safety and wholeness.

And when we overflow with God’s love and insight into what really matters and act on that, we become part of God’s solution to the brokenness of our world.

God is committed to a world filled with shalom, lived in shalom, drenched with shalom. A world blessed by God’s people in it who know that blessed shalom is what really matters, and in whom God will continue the work of the healing of all things until all know this shalom, this blessedness.

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen