sermon – Page 21

Angels in the Wilderness

February 18, 2024 By Vicar at Mount Olive

Lent isn’t only a time to wrestle with our demons and the devil out in the world, but also a time to encounter spiritual good and to be served by angels.

Vicar Lauren Mildahl
The First Sunday in Lent, year B
Texts: Mark 1:9-15, Genesis 9:8-17

God’s beloved children, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

We start in the wilderness.

Like every year in our lectionary, the first Sunday of Lent begins in the wilderness, with the “Temptation of Jesus.” Mark’s account is by far the shortest and it leaves out almost all of the details that we hear in the other synoptic gospels. But, still, as we begin our forty days of this liturgical season, we hear again of Jesus and his forty days in the wilderness, with the devil and the wild beasts.

This reading and this season of Lent invite us to turn our attention to our own wildernesses: those areas of our own lives where we might be feeling a little lost. Where we are face to face with the spiritual evil that hurts us or tempts us. Where the wild beasts within our hearts still roam. It can be a scary place to go. Spiritual practices can help – giving something up or taking something on, and it helps that we are going together. But still, it’s hard.

Which is, I suppose, what I love about Lent. I like that it’s hard.

The Rite of Confession that we are including in our liturgy this season is hard. It’s hard to name my faults, my own faults, my own most grievous faults. But, you know, when the water is a bit too hot and the scrub brush is a little too stiff and the soap is a little bit too harsh, that’s when I feel the cleanest. There are blessings – perspective and clarity – out in the wilderness. Perhaps that’s why the Spirit drove Jesus there.

But I can also fall for the trap that, I think, our lectionary falls into.

In the other years, when we hear this story, we only hear about the wilderness. We hear the fuller account of the Devil and the specific temptations offered to Jesus and it means we begin our Lenten season, narrowly focused on this cosmic boxing match. We can fixate so much on the blow by blow, and Jesus’ one-two knockout at the bell – until that’s what Lent becomes too: a struggle, a contest, a wrestling match where there must be a winner and a loser. The conflict with spiritual evil becomes the entire focus – and it seems like a close match.

And so the stakes are raised and, with them, guilt.

Shoot! I forgot and ate that chocolate bar I was supposed to be fasting from.
Shoot! I wanted to pray twice a day, but I was too busy.
Dang it! I was going to resist the devil today, but I was just too tired.

I guess spiritual evil wins this time. It can feel hopeless. Like losing.

But the nice thing about Mark’s account, because it is so short, is that we actually get to hear it in context.

And when we do that, we see that spiritual evil is completely outnumbered by spiritual good! Because I lied to you. We don’t actually start in the wilderness.

We actually begin in the water.

This year, we begin with Jesus’ baptism, and with the voice from heaven – spiritual good – speaking with a parent’s pride: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” The Holy Spirit descends like a dove – spiritual good flying into the world. Angels come to Jesus’ aid – spiritual good helping and providing. And it ends with the proclamation of spiritual good drawing near – the reign of God – the good news – the gospel.

The water, the voice, the dove, the angels, and the gospel – by my count there is five times more spiritual good in this short passage than there is spiritual evil!

And, realizing that can change how we view Lent.

What if it isn’t just a time to wrestle with our demons and the devil out in the world – but also time to be drenched with spiritual good and to be served by angels?!

Like a lot of modern people, I find it a little hard to talk about angels and demons. I certainly believe in spiritual activity – good and evil. But, for me, most everything that angels are said to do, I understand as part of how the Holy Spirit is active in the world. Protecting, speaking, healing, helping – those are all comfortably within the realm of the third person of the Trinity for me.

I guess, in my theology, I just don’t need angels? Is one way of putting it.

And I’ve never thought about Lent as an opportunity to meet an angel.

But who am I to dictate how the Holy Spirit will accomplish her deeds? If she wants to use angels, she will use angels! Because it is undeniable that for the people of the Bible, and for a lot of people today, angels are a major part of their experience of Christian life. I heard some beautiful stories this week about encounters with angels from some of you in this congregation. And I expect that if we polled this room we’d hear many more.

And just because I’ve never seen anything that I would describe as angel, I certainly know about close calls, near accidents, and help that arrived just when I needed it. I know about words of comfort and encouragement, calling me a beloved child just when I was at my lowest. I know about the energy of creativity, the hope of restoration, the bliss of intimacy, and the call of justice. I know what has been good for my spirit. I know spiritual good. So, I guess, I do know about angels.

And I know about rainbows.

After every storm, spiritual good materializes. Painted in the sky for us, we see the reminder of the first covenant God ever made with creation. A reminder made of arching colors, that God has promised to stick it out with us no matter what. Even when we face the pounding rain and raging wind of spiritual evil. Even when it seems hopeless. When we need the reminder the most.

Rainbows appear after storms. And angels arrive in the wilderness.

Spiritual good is all around us.

There’s a gentleman who has visited our church recently, who might be here today, who sits in the back. And one Sunday as he sat among the choir members waiting to process, he looked at me with rapture and said “I’m surrounded by angels!”

At first I thought, “Aww, that’s nice, but no, we’re just people.”

But maybe he was onto something. Because when we join the dance of the Trinity, when we walk in the way of God, when love draws us to one another, spiritual good flows through us. We join the ranks of angels – protecting, speaking, healing, helping, we become angels for each other. You all are surrounded by angels. The ones you cannot see and the ones you can.

You are surrounded by spiritual good. Five to one, it’s no contest.

And through your Lenten spiritual practices, whatever they are – through fasting and prayer, through volunteering and giving, through silence and singing, through deep intentional tending of your own personal wilderness and through your angelic service in love to those around you – spiritual good grows even more.

The wilderness is still there. But as we face it together this Lent, remember that you are soaked in the same spiritual good that drenched Jesus in our text today.

Like Jesus, you carry your baptism with you into the wilderness – for those of you who are baptized. And if you aren’t baptized, you can be! Lent was traditionally a time of preparation for baptism on Easter, we’d love to accompany you on that journey.

And, like Jesus, all of you carry the assurance that you are also God’s child, that God loves you and speaks with parental pride about you! And God is well pleased!

The Holy Spirit flies to you, and keeps you under her wings.

The gospel is proclaimed by you and for you: Jesus, God-With-Us, has been to the wilderness and will be there with you every step of the way.

And angels surround you.

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

Dusty Water

February 14, 2024 By Pr. Joseph Crippen

You are called to these practices to deepen your faith journey so you are a blessing and hope in the world, water in a desert.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
Ash Wednesday
Texts: Isaiah 58:1-12; Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21; 2 Corinthians 5:20b – 6:10

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

Should we be doing what we’re doing here tonight?

If you listen carefully to our readings you might get the distinct impression that both the prophet and the Son of God discourage outward signs of repentance such as we do tonight.

Jesus warns against those who mark their faces when they fast to so others know they’re doing it. Isaiah’s people are doing the familiar repentance ritual of putting on burlap clothes and pouring ashes over their heads. And God says: is that what you call acceptable to me?

Yet at the center of this liturgy we will confess our sins, and have ashes placed on our foreheads. It’s not pouring a bucket over our heads, but it’s definitely marking our face.

Remember this, though. The people who created the lectionary were pretty smart people. They could read. They saw Isaiah 58 and wanted it read today. They remembered Jesus’ words in the Sermon on the Mount and thought, “that’s the Gospel reading.”

So maybe there’s something deeper here we’re missing.

The three spiritual practices Jesus names form our great Lenten call, to which you’re invited tonight.

The giving of alms he names first, sharing your wealth to help your neighbor in need, then prayer, and finally fasting. All of these Jesus encourages, endorses.

Just do them for the right reasons, Jesus says. Don’t do them to impress others. If you’re doing spiritual practices, walking your baptismal journey, don’t do it so others can see you and admire you. So if you’re getting ashes today so you can show people how pious you are, or if you really want to go out with friends without washing your forehead, Jesus suggests you re-think your motivation.

But if this Lenten journey, begun in confession and the mark of ashes, realigns you with God and God’s call to you, that’s good. Fasting, prayer and giving of alms are deeply important things to do, because that’s the way to life.

And that’s exactly what God says through Isaiah.

The people in their burlap sacks, with ashes falling off their hair, face, and head, complain that God doesn’t even notice them.

But God says, I don’t care about sackcloth and ashes. That’s not a proper fast. The fast I want is that you invite homeless people into your home. I’ll notice that. Loose the bonds of injustice in your world, help the oppressed go free? I will see and rejoice in that. Provide food to those who hunger and clothes to those who have none, and your life will be like a light breaking forth at dawn, God says. I will definitely see that.

Giving up something for Lent, as we do, isn’t a true fast for God, either. True fasting is rejoining God’s way and life to be a blessing to others.

These are some of the most beautiful verses in Scripture.

The joy God promises you and me comes when we find our spiritual journey in being God’s blessing and care for others. When you become God’s light in the shadows of this world. When you are a watered garden, abundant blessing to others who are fed by your goodness and kindness. When you’re like a spring of water that never fails, God says.

That’s the goal of our Lenten disciplines, our Lenten journey. That in giving alms, in prayer, in fasting as God hopes we fast, we become more and more a blessing to our neighbors and our world. And find blessing and life in return.

There’s one more thing to know: you are definitely going to die.

When you receive ashes, you’ll be reminded of this. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” That sounds depressing.

But Jesus and the prophet don’t see that. The joy that comes from realigning with God’s priorities and hopes, with God’s love for all people, isn’t lost by the realization you’re going to die, it’s deepened.

That remembering gives you hope. And direction. If you live in the absolute truth that your time is limited, even if your end is after many more years to come, you have the incentive to seek the joy of your baptismal journey right now. To take advantage of today because no one promised you tomorrow.

Tonight we begin our yearly renewal of our baptismal calling.

And what Isaiah dearly hopes, what Christ Jesus longs to see, is that what we practice in these weeks becomes our pattern, the shape of your whole life. That in doing these things you live fully into the truth that you are a beloved child of God, called to bear God’s love and life into the world. To be a lush, watered garden, a spring of water for your world.

And since you will die some day, today’s the day to get started. Now’s the time, Paul says. Give alms. Pray. Fast. And you will see the joy spring out of your heart and pour into the world for the hope of all.

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

The Light That You Can See

February 11, 2024 By Pr. Joseph Crippen

There are two hills where Jesus stands, and two lights: it’s the second one outside the city that matters to you and the universe, not today’s hill.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Transfiguration of Our Lord, year B
Text: Mark 9:2-9 (plus 10)

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

Jesus must have had a subpar marketing department.

Everything about how this event was handled seems like a mistake.

If you’re going to reveal your true divine glory, competent marketing people would tell you to invite the money, the folks who fund your mission, to convince them. Jesus should have invited Joanna and Susanna and Mary Magdalene up this hill. They and a bunch of other unnamed women disciples were the financial backers of this whole operation.

Or, good marketers might suggest, invite the ones working against you. Dramatically put the fear of God into them so they come over to your side. Also you’ve got Israel’s two great heroes, Moses and Elijah right there, affirming you’re legitimate. Jesus should have invited the scribes and Pharisees.

But he only invites Peter, James, and John. For no known reason, except they seem to be among the leaders. And worst of all, he forbids them from saying anything to anyone about what they’d seen. He shuts down all media concerning this event, until he has risen from the dead.

It’s a massive contrast with the other hill Jesus will soon climb.

On this second hill, outside Jerusalem, he will again meet with two people. But this time they’re two criminals, not great leaders of Judaism, and they’ll all be hanging on crosses.

This time Jesus doesn’t get to invite who comes, or insist on silence. Everyone in Jerusalem can see if they want. It’s a public spectacle.

And this time, instead of glowing with divine light, Jesus is naked, bloody, beaten, humiliated.

This is the revelation that everyone sees, the Jesus the world experiences. Someone doesn’t seem to have paid very careful attention to the visuals of these two events.

We certainly would like to see something like the first hill.

Moses and Elijah, and Jesus glowing like the sun in all his divine glory. Wouldn’t our faith be stronger if we’d see something like that?

Well, my mother had a vision of Jesus. She and my father were discussing marriage on a bench by Lake Phalen in St. Paul. There were real challenges they faced. And she looked up and saw Jesus, and immediately was at peace, and the decision was made. I asked her where he was, was it just his face, how did she know it was Jesus, what did he look like? She never could answer that – visions are hard to retell.

But I realized long ago it didn’t bother me that I’ve never had a vision like that. Like the choice of Peter and the others, I have no idea why Jesus appeared to my mother. And while it changed her life, in truth, her vision was never the core of her faith.

What my mother witnessed to me again and again was the unconditional love of God. She trusted it fervently and lived it. My father taught me to love theology, to think critically, to care for words, especially words of faith. My mother taught me God’s love.

But my mother’s theology of grace wasn’t related to her vision. It was grounded in the love of God in Christ that she knew from her deep and long study of Scripture, and their regular worship and devotional life. Her trust in God’s love came from that other hill.

See, there really wasn’t a marketing failure.

The important hill to see is the public one. The vision to see is the humiliating, bloody one. That is, if you really want to know what God is doing in Christ. Any theophany worth its salt will have the god-figure glowing and shining. In mythology and world religions, events like the Transfiguration are a dime-a-dozen.

But no one would expect God to come in person and die on that hill outside the city. But it’s the only thing that truly reveals God.

In Mark only three times does someone call Jesus the Son of God. First, a voice from the heavens at his baptism, just for Jesus’ ears, “you are my beloved Son, I am well pleased with you.” Second was here, this time saying for witnesses to hear “This is my beloved Son, listen to him!”

But the third time it wasn’t from the heavens. It was from the earth, from one of us. That’s how you know this is the hill to watch. The third time it’s a Roman centurion who recognizes God when he sees how Jesus died. Somehow this foreigner who knew nothing of the God of Israel, said, “Truly this man was the Son of God.” And this is your sign: this is where you’ll also recognize God.

The light shining from the cross is the true light to look for.

It’s not a shiny god-moment like today’s Gospel. There’s a reason Jesus didn’t want people to talk about the Transfiguration until they’d seen him die and rise. Because the light that shines from the darkness of the cross reveals God’s true identity.

It pierces the love of God into every shadow and every evil in the world. It exposes evil to the truth of God’s love, a love that will die just to bring you and me and all people and all things and the whole creation back into the life of the Trinity. There’s not much to learn from a God who can glow on a mountain. But the life of the universe depends on the true God offering God’s own life at the cross.

God’s love seen here is vulnerable, self-giving, and it transforms. It brings about Jesus’ resurrection and yours. This cross-shining light of love heals your heart of your pain and sorrow, forgives your sin and evil, holds you now and always in peace.

And this cross-shining light of love empowers you to offer yourself in love to this world. Jesus never told anyone to keep silent about this light. Instead, he said to all who would follow: bear this in your heart, in your body, into the world. It will be your life, and you will bring healing to my broken world for me.

So, you didn’t miss anything by missing this light show.

It just isn’t that important for you or me or the world. It actually seems that the importance of the Transfiguration was for Jesus. He needed Moses and Elijah’s encouragement and support as he turned his face to that second hill.

And as we begin our Lenten journey this week, practicing our baptismal calling, we also remember where we are headed, to the hill that really matters. But you’ve already seen it, been changed by it, shaped by it. So, even now you and I can bear that cross-shining light into the shadows that surround our world. And watch the love of God transform us and all things.

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

You, Too

February 4, 2024 By Pr. Joseph Crippen

You matter to God, too. You get to ask for healing and hope, too. You are God’s beloved, always. Trust that.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Fifth Sunday after Epiphany, Lect. 5 B
Texts: Isaiah 40:21-31; Mark 1:29-39

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

God’s people felt abandoned by the God who had chosen them.

In exile, they wondered why God disregarded them, ignored their bitter path.

And today Isaiah speaks hope: “Have you not known? Have you not heard? The God you call I-AM-WHO-I-AM is not only Creator of the ends of the earth, this God never tires, never grows weary, and is coming to bring power to those who are faint, to strengthen you, God’s people. You are going to be healed, restored.

This is beautiful. But it’s remarkable to me that Israel felt they could cry out their pain and sorrow to God. Because I’m sometimes not sure I have the right to ask God for such healing and hope for me.

In our Prayer of the Day we asked, “Make us agents of your healing and wholeness.”

And we lean into that prayer. So many suffer in the world from hunger and need, and there are so many massive problems in our world, from racism to sexism to oppression, to rising fascism here. And in this place we know the Triune God has called us to do something. To be Christ’s healing. So of course we pray, “make us agents of your healing and wholeness.”

But do you know you get to ask God for healing, too? And I don’t mean “you” for this whole congregation here. I mean you, singular, you personally. Do you know God cares about your pain, your suffering, your struggles? Do you know you’re permitted to pray, “send me an agent of your healing and wholeness, please”?

Have you not known this? Have you not heard?

It’s hard to know what we know and believe we also have a right to ask for help.

The privilege so many of us enjoy, some more than others even in this community, is real. We know that so many of our neighbors daily suffer from things we can’t imagine experiencing. We’ve learned to open our eyes and see that privilege, and in this place – I see it all the time – in this place we are a group of people committed to making a difference.

But there’s a trap there. With a faith like the one we share, you might find it hard to believe you also get to name your pain and ask God to help you. Maybe it’s part of the cultural truth of this area that so many of us learned: “Don’t complain, lots of people have it worse than you.” It’s definitely deeply rooted in my DNA. Why would I tell people if I was in pain or suffering? Isn’t that just whining, compared to the horrors that so many go through?

But have you not known? Have you not heard? God loves you – you specifically – with a love that cannot be stopped by anything.

Jesus, in deep wisdom, commanded you to love your neighbor as you love yourself.

For Jesus, it’s simple: the loving of neighbor you want to do starts with you loving yourself. A friend of mine puts it this way: if you want to live a life of non-violence, the first step is to not be violent to yourself.

So if you’re suffering, you deserve to ask for healing, too. If you’ve got decades of abuse to work through, or new diagnoses of disease facing you, if you’ve felt ostracized or left out, if you don’t think you belong, or matter, or will be missed, God wants to bring life to you. And if you are so filled with guilt over your privilege, or your implicit biases, or your participation, unwilling or not, in the systemic evil that surrounds us everywhere, you get to be forgiven, too.

Jesus said God so loved the cosmos God came to us in the Son, not to condemn but to heal, to save. (John 3:16-17) But Jesus also says God so loved you that God came for you. For your healing. For your new heart. For your abundant life. Don’t omit yourself from the “cosmos.” You also count to God.

Have you really not known this? Didn’t you hear today?

Isaiah says, and you sang the same in the Psalm, that God counts the stars and calls them all by name, doesn’t miss a single one. But God also heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds. The Triune God who holds the entire universe of stars in embracing love, calling them by name in joy, still notices your tears, your sorrow, your pain, your fear, and comes to you, too.

I-AM-WHO-I-AM gives power to the faint ones, Isaiah says, and strength to the powerless ones. That means you, too. Those who wait for I-AM-WHO-I-AM will fly like eagles and never get weary. That means you, too.

It’s right there in these stories of Jesus.

Jesus is doing all these healings and exorcisms, and is probably exhausted. So he heads to Peter and Andrew’s home. And Peter asks him to heal his mother-in-law. Maybe Peter worried he was imposing. Maybe he didn’t. But he asked. And she was made well.

All these people heard about someone healing and driving out demons and flocked to Jesus. They didn’t think, “it’s not for me, others have it worse.” They thought, “how can I not go?”

But you already know this. You’ve heard this.

You’re here or joining online because deep down you need to hear that God loves you. Whether you feel attacked by demonic powers or stricken by medical illness, whether you don’t know where the pain is from or you do, whether you have a sadness needing comfort or a fear needing hope, you came here to see if maybe, maybe, you can find healing and wholeness from God, too. And that’s a good thing.

And yes, in worship you will hear that you are called to be Christ’s love in the world, to reach out to others with God’s wholeness. That’s good and right, too, and you take it very seriously.

But just for today, maybe try to trust this: The Triune God has come to this world in Christ for you. For your healing. For your life. For your hope. There is no one more important in God’s eyes than you, and no one God wants to hear from right now more than you.

Have you not known? Have you not heard? You are God’s beloved, and always will be. Go ahead and ask for what you need. God’s waiting for that very thing, and never gets tired or weary.

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

Blood and Flesh

February 2, 2024 By Vicar at Mount Olive

God transcends holy purity to enter into impurity in blood and flesh, sharing even the hard and gross experiences of life with us.

Vicar Lauren Mildahl
The Presentation of our Lord
Texts: Hebrews 2:14-18, Luke 2:22-40

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

It’s hard being trapped in these bodies.

Even in the best of times, when everything is working like it should, these bodies of ours still require so much care, and they still produce so many various fluids and waste. Even when we are perfectly healthy, living in a body is, just a little bit, gross.

That’s what I was thinking about this week as I was imagining this scene in the temple. Imagining the moment when Simeon took the baby Jesus in his arms, I was reminded of the times I held my newborn nieces and nephews. And how cute and tiny and perfect they were – but also how their tiny baby bodies were kind of gross sometimes. Every parent I know has a horror story that ends with the line, “and that’s how we learned that you always need to bring two sets of spare clothes.”

Snot and spit up and overflowing diapers-that’s what being around a baby is like.

Perpetual messiness, briefly interrupted by rare moments of cleanliness. And so who’s to say that while Simeon was singing the Nunc Dimittis, Jesus wasn’t leaving some kind of fluid on him? Like babies do. Because he was. A real alive baby, experiencing the reality of living in a baby body.

And I think that’s pretty amazing! God alive as a baby! Tiny and vulnerable and smelly and alive – just like we are!

And this was clearly an important point for the writer of Hebrews as well.

Our text today begins in the middle of a theological argument centered around Jesus’ divinity and Jesus’ humanity – trying to answer the question that Christ-followers have been grappling with since the days when the New Testament was still being written: Why did God become human?

The Preacher in Hebrews answers: “Since, therefore, the children [that is humans – creatures – you and me] – since therefore the children share flesh and blood, [Jesus] himself likewise shared the same things…to become like his brothers and sisters in every respect.”

To free us and to help us and to reconnect us with God – Jesus shared our flesh and blood.

Actually, in the Greek, it’s the other way around. It says “haimatos kai sarkos” – “blood and flesh.”

It probably shouldn’t make that much of a difference. Every English translation I could find switched the two around because it makes perfect sense to use the familiar English idiom “flesh and blood.” But I almost wish the translators would leave it in the original order: blood and flesh.

Blood and flesh feels so much visceral, more connected to the earthy stuff of our bodies. The liquids and the solids that make up these meat sacks. Jesus doesn’t just share our “flesh and blood” because we have some kind of kinship in a nice, sanitized, metaphorical way.

Jesus shares our blood and flesh – our experience of life from within our biological containers.

So that he could share in our experiences about everything we undergo in life – every joy and pleasure and satisfaction and every craving and pain and ache and excretion of our bodies. Everything! Even the things that are a little bit gross. The things that are literally called “unclean” in the Torah.

God becoming blood and flesh meant that Jesus, like everyone else, was “unclean,” ritually impure, most of the time.

Purity, for Jews, doesn’t mean a state of sinlessness.

It doesn’t really have anything to do with sin – it has to do with living! Any time you come in contact with the fluids and the stuff of living, because of menstruation or because of ejaculation or because of childbirth or because of burying a corpse¹ – all these things of blood and flesh – which are perfectly normal and perfectly good and healthy – are unclean as well.

The idea of maintaining a permanent state of ritual purity is laughable. It isn’t supposed to even be possible for creatures who are blood and flesh. For Jews like Jesus, permanent purity was only achievable for God, who didn’t experience the viscera of life, or for angels, spiritual beings who didn’t experience embodied earthiness.

Because that’s what holiness is: that set-apartness that transcends reality and materiality.

God’s holiness lies in the fact God isn’t a being, God is Being-Itself.² The creative force of all existence, permeating all existence, and somehow also the things that doesn’t exist – so completely and utterly incomprehensible to us because we are small and finite and contained. And how could we ever approach divinity with our limited senses and leaking orifices?

We can’t. Holiness isn’t our natural state. And this is what the rituals of purification practiced by Jews for centuries are for. And if you remember, this is half of the reason that the family went to the temple that day: “When the time came for their purification according to the law of Moses.” Most scholars assume that Luke was talking about a purification ritual that was required after childbirth. Childbirth is one of the most bloody and fleshy experiences a person can have – an experience so human, so creaturely, so alive, so good, but so different from the intangible, ineffable, disembodied holiness of God. The rituals of purification helped connect the two, helped tend to the joys and sorrows of living and dying, helped unite the physical and the spiritual, helped each person see beyond their blood and flesh container to glimpse the transcendent holiness of God.

And it is in the temple that day – after going through the ritual practices of purification – that Simeon and Anna recognize the Messiah. Salvation is revealed and the veil is lifted – and what they see is that God has chosen impurity. God has chosen the uncleanness and the grossness of blood and flesh. God has entered into life.

So that Simeon holds in his arms, not God – holy and unknowable, but God – tangible and accessible. God, transcending divine purity itself to become an unclean baby boy.

This is the paradox at the heart of our faith.

The paradox of the kind of love that leads purity to embrace impurity. That depth of love that leads God to share our human body. And this is the paradox that we celebrate every Eucharist when we proclaim with singing God is Holy, Holy, Holy and then immediately turn around and hold up the bread and say the words of Jesus “This is my body.” This is my blood and flesh, eat it so you don’t forget how my love drew me to you – every single part of you. Even the parts of your life that are hard and gross – you are good – you are beloved.

You are saints – holy ones.

You are fleshy containers not just of humanity, but of divinity as well. Catching glimpses of God’s transcendent perspective through Christ. So that your experience of life, though mediated through your blood and flesh, is not limited by it. Because in Christ you experience life that transcends the limits of your body. In Christ you are free from the fear of death. You are free to embrace the goodness of the grossness of created life, and free to welcome death as a friend. So that like, Simeon, you can sing, “Lord you may now dismiss your servant in peace.” You are free, through the love of Christ, Jesus our brother in blood and flesh.

You are free.

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

^{1. This list is adapted from Amy-Jill Levine and Ben Witherington’s commentary on the Gospel of Luke, 2018, pg 64.}

^{2. This section relies heavily on the works of Paul Tillich, especially Systematic Theology: Volume 1, 1951.}