John the Baptist’s example shows us that faithful commitment to Christ means trusting and serving God even when you’re uncertain how things will turn out.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Third Sunday of Advent, year A
Texts: Isaiah 35:1-10, Matthew 11:2-11

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

You need to take John the Baptist seriously.

Yes, I’m talking about the guy who lived in the wild, wore animal skins and foraged for food. I’m talking about the guy who went around shouting about winnowing forks, impending wrath, and baptism by fire. You need to take him seriously.

Too often John is portrayed as some kind of social aberration, a madman who behaved the way he did because he was unhinged. But John was a prophet, a sage, a truth-speaker. He was one of many people in his day who understood that an ascetic life in the wilderness could foster deep spiritual wisdom.

He was widely known and well respected. He wasn’t crazy. He was disciplined; he was zealous. He was committed to his mission, and his mission was to point to Jesus Christ.

John gave everything for that mission. He staked his career, his reputation, even his life, on the truth of Jesus Christ. At the point in Matthew’s Gospel that we read this morning, John has been imprisoned by King Herod, who will eventually execute him. John’s ministry was ending as Jesus’ ministry was beginning.

That means that John, the great forerunner of Christ, did not get to experience Jesus’ ministry for himself. He did not hear Jesus’ teachings, witness Jesus’ healings. He was not there when Jesus died on a cross, or when Jesus conquered death.

Although he didn’t see these things himself, John continually insisted that Jesus was the promised Messiah. He believed that Jesus was Emmanuel, God come to earth.

Yet despite this profound trust in who Jesus was, John was still afraid. He was afraid that he’d led people in the wrong direction, pointed to the wrong person. While he was in prison, John had heard stories about what Jesus was up to, and they didn’t always make sense to him. They didn’t always fit his expectations. John had given everything for Jesus, but he was still uncertain.

So he sent a desperate message asking Jesus, “Are you the one, or are we to wait for another?” Facing the end of his life, John wondered whether or not he’d gotten it right. He just wanted to be sure.

Jesus responded that he was bringing healing and liberation for all people, especially those who struggle the most.

The way Jesus described his ministry echoes ancient words from the prophet Isaiah. We heard those words this morning. Isaiah’s vision paints a picture of the new life that is possible through the Messiah.

It is a transformation so complete that it’s like the harsh Judean desert turning into a lush oasis. Plants can grow, animals can thrive. The very landscape itself becomes an expression of joy! People who are weak in body find strength. Those who suffer in spirit find healing. There are no barriers to keep people from flourishing. And this notoriously dangerous wilderness is now made safe for everyone. Anyone can find their way through. No one gets lost. No one gets hurt. This is how Isaiah imagines the miraculous restoration God brings: it is total social and ecological renewal.

It may be difficult for you here this morning, in the land of 10,000 lakes (currently 10,000 frozen lakes), to grasp just how incredible this vision of a blooming desert would have sounded in its original context.

But you know exactly what it’s like to hear a vision of peace and harmony for the world and think, “No way. That’s impossible.”

A community in which no one is afraid and everyone is safe. That seems impossible.
A time when suffering minds and bodies are healed seems impossible.
A place where all people are welcomed seems impossible.
A landscape in which all species of plants and animals can thrive seems impossible.

When we look around our world, we don’t see an oasis. We still see the metaphorical desert.

We see gun violence and hate crimes that are devastatingly common, millions of people who lack access to adequate healthcare, institutions entrenched in racism and prejudice, habitat loss and climate change that are decimating biodiversity.

Will God in Christ really transform all this?

If you have asked this question, then know that you are not alone. Long ago, someone asked this same question from a prison cell: “Are you the one who will save us, or not, Jesus? Because, right now, to me, it seems impossible.”

If this is your prayer, then know that you pray alongside John, that courageous prophet who gave everything he had for the sake of the Gospel, even though he couldn’t see the ending of everything he’d worked for. In the midst of his uncertainty, in the midst of his fear, he believed that God could still – somehow – bring restoration through Christ. He held on to the vision of a desert in bloom, even though he hadn’t yet experienced it.

You can hold on to that vision, too. That vision was given to you for a time such as this.
A time when you trust God but you’re still not sure how things will work out.
A time when you are committed to the work of the Gospel, but you’re overwhelmed by all the hurt in the world.
A time when you look back on a life of faithfulness but still experience doubt.

This is why you need to take John the Baptist seriously: Because his example shows that faithful commitment to Christ does not mean you’re not afraid: it means you trust God in the midst of your fear. You rely on God’s promises even before you have seen them be fully realized. You don’t have to have all the answers before you join God’s mission. You offer your life in service to the Gospel, as John did, and you keep pointing to Christ.

Because your skills, your voice, and your witness are needed. You are a part of the restoration that God is working in the world. The God you trust has also entrusted you to be the hands and feet of Christ.

And when you’re afraid and change seems impossible, you can come back to this good news: you’re putting your trust in a God who makes the impossible possible,
a God who makes a way where there is no way, like water in the desert;
a God who brings good news to the poor;
a God who comforts the suffering;
a God who lifts up the lowly, who provides for the hungry, who brings the dead to life.

You’re trusting a God who keeps promises, even when they’re beyond your lifetime. God can see the end of the journey, even when you can’t. And God goes with you every step of the way, even through the desert.

Amen.

You are filled with the Spirit, anointed by God, filled with wisdom, understanding, and all those gifts of the Spirit, so that you might live as Christ and bring about God’s reign of peace.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Second Sunday of Advent, year A
Texts: Isaiah 11:1-10; Matthew 3:1-12; Romans 15:4-13

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

Judah was in a terrible situation.

Now nearly three hundred years after David’s great kingdom split in two, the northern kingdom, Israel, was pressuring Judah to join an alliance to resist the great empire Assyria, an empire which eventually destroyed the northern kingdom. The heir to David’s throne, Ahaz, was wicked, didn’t worship the true God, even burned up one of his sons as a sacrifice, and wasn’t capable of leading well in this crisis. David’s family, the tree of Jesse, had seemingly come to an end, at least in terms of worthy kings. The tree looked about to be cut off, left as a stump.

But Isaiah declared a dead stump isn’t always dead. A shoot, a new growth, would grow out of that stump, a faithful and righteous ruler in David’s line was coming. One filled with God’s Spirit, like David. The spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of God, the spirit of delight, would be in this Davidic ruler.

And peace would come from this ruler’s reign. Natural enemies would live in peace and quietness together. The poor would receive justice. The meek would receive fair and equal treatment.

Now, Ahaz’ son, Hezekiah, was faithful and righteous, and a good ruler, and perhaps Judah saw him as the fulfillment of this prophetic promise. David’s tree wasn’t fully rotten and dead, after all.

But about 700 years later, the disciples of Jesus of Nazareth, risen from the dead after his brutal execution, did a bold thing with these words.

They said: Jesus is the shoot from the stump. The Davidic kingship had completely died out by Jesus’ day, a true dead stump. Jesus, of David’s family, was humiliated and crucified. Truly dead. Yet now he was and is alive, raised. Life from death, just like the green shoot.

And the Spirit of God was clearly upon him. If anyone had the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of God, the spirit of joy, it was Jesus.

Isaiah’s peaceable kingdom lived in him, too. He lived non-violently, preached peace, and even let his own people kill him rather than lift a weapon. He proclaimed God’s love and mercy, and showed it in his own suffering and death for the sake of the world. In Jesus they saw a glimpse of this new reign of God. Just as David and all his line were anointed God’s servants, literally God’s Christs, God’s Messiahs, so too was Jesus, they believed. It all made sense. So the Church boldly claimed these verses for the Christ, the Son of God, and so we still do.

But pay attention, because we’re about to do something even more wondrously audacious.

This morning we will take an eight-month old baby girl and claim this Messianic promise applies to her. That she’s our sign of God’s new life in a dying world.

We’ll first baptize her with water in the Triune Name, as Jesus commanded. That’s not as shocking.

But then we will lay hands on her head and pray, “Sustain her with the gift of your Holy Spirit: the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord, the spirit of joy in your presence.” Yes. We will claim those words are hers.

We’ll then anoint her head with olive oil, just like King David himself. She will become an anointed one of God, just like King David. Just like Jesus. Literally a Messiah. A Christ.

We claim this whole prophecy for Isla today. As God’s anointed, she’ll be filled with God’s Spirit, be a messenger of peace, justice, mercy. Her life will be a sign, a glimpse, of God’s reign of peace and love.

This is a world changing claim we’re making on this little girl, saying, “She is now Christ for us and for this world, God’s anointed.” Little wonder we ask her parents to raise her in the faith, teach her about God, bring her to this worshipping community, give her God’s Scriptures. We need them to, because we also declare that our hope for Isla is that she’ll learn to “trust God, proclaim Christ through word and deed, care for others and the world God made, and work for justice and peace.” She’ll also need her sponsors’ prayers and support, and the love and prayers of all of you for what we claim on her.

But here’s a blessing for Isla: she’s not the only Christ. Not by a long shot.

I can’t begin to count how many heads I’ve laid my hands upon and prayed this prayer at baptism, how many heads I’ve laid my hands upon and prayed this prayer at confirmation. And every time we do the liturgy of affirmation of baptism, we pray this prophetic promise onto ourselves.

Isla joins you in the great community of the anointed ones of God, the Christs God sends into the world. Because, as John the Baptist said today, the baptism Jesus came to bring is a baptism of the Holy Spirit and of fire. Jesus’ Baptism is Pentecost.

At Pentecost, you see that Jesus is just the first step. Now the Spirit of God is upon you, too, and the fire of God’s breath and life in your heart, just as at the beginning. Not John’s destroying fire, but a purifying, cleansing fire that makes you new, and a soul-igniting fire that sends you out as Christ into the world yourself.

Now Isla joins the Pentecost people. We won’t send her out just yet. She needs to live under the promises and care of her parents and sponsors and of us, her community in faith.

But you, and I, we’re sent out now. What does that mean for you?

To claim Isaiah’s Messianic promise as your own means to trust that God’s Spirit is actually in you, as promised. As given in your baptism. It is to trust that you are, in fact, God’s Anointed.

Can you look into your heart and your life for signs that the Spirit of God has come to you? Moments where God’s wisdom gave you clarity, where understanding of who you were and what God was calling you to do came? Moments where you were able to give wise counsel to others as God’s anointed? Where you felt the might of God’s powerful love, the strength of grace and forgiveness within you?

Consider what you know now about God, God’s love, God’s call to you, Spirit-knowledge, that you didn’t know last year. Or ten years ago. Can you see moments when the Holy Spirit has lifted up your heart to God, filled you with joy and delight?

Sometimes you can’t see these gifts at the time, but you can look back on the path and notice what God has done. You can hold Isaiah’s words in your heart and keep watch. Now that you know you’ve had this claimed as a promise for you, you can see it better.

And then you can also live it better.

The Spirit comes, Isaiah says, and John the Baptist agrees, to turn God’s people into people of peace, and justice, and mercy. To change predators into compassionate companions. To create a world where those who are poor finally find justice, and those who are not powerful find equity and fairness.

That’s what the wisdom and understanding, the counsel and might, the knowledge and fear of God, the joy in God’s presence, is for: that you actually live as Christ Jesus lived, and bear this peaceable reign of God in your very body, your voice, your hands, your heart, your life.

Oh, but you say, that can’t be me. I’m really not that important.

I don’t think I have any of those attributes. I certainly can’t do all the things Jesus did. Changing all that’s wrong with this world seems just as impossible as, I don’t know, a baby playing with a venomous snake and being safe, or . . . a wolf napping with a lamb.

But did you not hear? Even if something is as dead as an old stump, God can bring a shoot of new life and nourish the world. Even if the Son of God is dead and gone on a cross, God can raise him up to a glorious life that pours healing into the world.

Stumps can still live. Death can’t stop God’s life. God’s Spirit can do all this in you, and more. And Paul promises you this today: the power of the Holy Spirit will fill you with joy, and peace, and an abundance of hope. Along with all of Isaiah’s promises.

Be audacious, as audacious as we are with little Isla today, and claim this as your truth. Because it already has been declared about you, the Holy Spirit has already been given you, and as we prayed to begin this liturgy, God is about to stir up your heart to live as God’s Christ.

So, as Jesus said last week, wake up. Things are going to start getting interesting for you. And the world is going to be saved along with it.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

 

God is the one waiting this Advent, waiting for you to come and be the Christ for the world you were anointed to be.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The First Sunday of Advent, year A
Texts: Isaiah 2:1-5; Romans 13:11-14; Matthew 24:36-44

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

What if God’s the one waiting for an Advent?

Hoping, praying for the coming of Christ into this world to bring wholeness and life?

Every year we take this season to remember we are always waiting for God’s coming again in Christ. We talk about what it means to be patient for God’s healing of all things.

But what if the Triune God is the one who waits, the patient one?

What if we’ve been looking at Advent backwards?

Isaiah’s pretty clear about this.

In days to come, the prophet says, weapons of war will be reshaped into tools for growing, tools for nurturing, tools for feeding. Weapons of any kind won’t be needed, and the earth’s peoples won’t even learn how to do war.

It’s a beautiful promise. You just might not have heard clearly how it happens, that’s all.

Isaiah actually proclaims that all the world’s peoples will come to God’s mountain to learn a new way. God’s teaching will go out from there and spread over the world. All people will learn what it is to walk in God’s way. And the prophet concludes with this urgent invitation: “Come, let us walk in the light of the God Who Is!”

We’ve been waiting for God to bring about the promised peace on earth, good will to all, and we’ve missed this whole truth: it is God who is waiting for us. This Advent, and every day, the holy and Triune God is praying, “please come. Christ is needed in the world, you anointed ones of mine. Come, my Christs, and learn from me, let me shape you in my love, so I can send you out for the blessing of my creation.”

It’s time we took the Scriptures seriously regarding God’s promised hope for this world.

It’s almost never God’s divine intervention. It’s always God choosing people, drawing them close, showing them the light of God’s way, and sending them out.

And you and I, who are baptized in Christ, we even claim that title. You are anointed in baptism, which means you are literally Christ. One in Christ Jesus’ death and resurrection. That’s not just so you know where you’re going after you die. If you are one with Christ, you are joined into the life of the Triune God.

And if you are Christ, the Anointed of God, there’s only one job to do: go out and be the Anointed of God.

And the Triune God is waiting, hoping that you, that I will finally hear what the plan is and act on it.

It’s time for salvation now, Paul says. “So, put on the Lord Jesus Christ.”

The divisions in the Roman churches between Jewish Christians and Gentile Christians can only be healed when they all realize that they are Christ, they are, as Paul says to them earlier, people who are transformed by the renewing of their minds, rescued from their enmity with God, and made into one body. Made into Christ. That’s not a symbol, or a cute way to think of the Church. Christ is a real body, Paul believes, made up of real people who are in fact, Christ themselves.

So “be clothed in Christ,” Paul literally says. Put Christ on as a garment, be covered by the anointing of God, and you will be changed.

This whole section of Romans, of which we only got a small part today, shows what that looks like:

You will love your neighbor, because you are Christ.

You will be kind to those weaker in the faith, because you are Christ.

You will not insist on your own way, because you are Christ.

You will rejoice in hope, you will be patient in suffering, because you are Christ.

You will live in harmony with others, you will live peaceably with all, because you are Christ.

Even if no one else does, you need to be who you are, Paul says. You are needed to overcome the evil of this world with your good. Because you are Christ.

The thing is, God needs weapons changed to tools for feeding. But God needs you to do it. It’s what you’re anointed for.

Every time I lash out at someone, every time you cause another person pain on behalf of your own comfort, we’re just making more weapons.

We may not have the ability to end war on a global scale, though we can certainly work for that, vote for that, urge our leaders toward that goal. But none of that matters if we don’t look at the swords and spears in our own hands, our violent thought, our violent words, our violent actions, and recognize that they must be changed. Jesus clearly preached and lived a way of non-violence, but he did that in a tradition that stretches back at least as far as these words of Isaiah.

Everything that we do matters. Your life affects others. Even things that you do that you aren’t aware hurt others have their impact. And if it harms anyone, then as Christ, you have to ask if you are loving your neighbor as yourself, if you are being peaceable, if you are living a transformed life.

It’s complicated, and it’s inconvenient. More and more people are making you and me aware of how what we do hurts others in so many ways. We’re confronted daily with how our lives are literally weaponized, even without our wanting it to be so. I just recently decided I don’t think I can do business with a company anymore because of the horrible work conditions they subject their workers to. As Christ, as God’s anointed, I’ve decided there are other companies I can use, and until I’m convinced otherwise, I can’t participate in their practices.

God’s waiting, for me, for you, because only you and I can set down our weapons and make them into tools for healing and life.

Only you and I can pay attention to our lives, our words, our actions, consider how our neighbor is affected, and then ask, “what should I do?” This is how together we will end the sin of racism, the evil of sexism, the criminal reality that people starve to death in a world with tons of food thrown away every day, and this is how we will end every problem that harms and even kills God’s beloved children.

And this is why Jesus doesn’t really care about when the world will end. As the Son of God, he says today he has no idea when it will happen. Don’t care about that, Jesus says. Just stay awake, do the job you’ve been called to do, and let the end be what it is whenever it is.

This is why you were anointed. It’s why we were all anointed.

So what are you waiting for?

If God’s plan can’t happen without you, what does that mean for your Advent prayer? If you’ve been called into your life, your family, your community, anointed in baptism for what you and only you can do as Christ, what does that mean for your Advent prayer?

You certainly can continue to pray, “Come, Lord Jesus.” That prayer is answered every moment of your day, every place you are: with your life, and the lives of all God’s anointed.

In our Eucharistic Prayer every week we pray both, “Come, Lord Jesus,” and “Come, Holy Spirit.” And in the prayer for the Spirit we always ask God’s Spirit to move in us and change us in some way. To empower us to be a part of God’s healing and life. To give us what we need to answer God’s patient but urgent Advent prayer, to be what God is waiting for.

The second coming of Christ is you. It’s me. We are who we’ve been waiting for. And with the courage of the Spirit flowing in you, there’s no limit to what God can do for the world through you.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

 

The biblical model of gratitude is a spiritual practice that can nourish us through all seasons of life.

Vicar Bristol Reading
Day of Thanksgiving, Year C
Texts: Deuteronomy 26:1-11, Philippians 4:4-9, John 6:25-35

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

Gratitude is having a moment. It’s trendy to be thankful these days.

Numerous self-help gurus suggest keeping a daily gratitude journal, writing down a few things you’re thankful for every single day. Doing so, they say, is a quick and easy way to “fix your mindset,” and “spark joy.” In other words: it will make you feel better! And it’s true. Social science research has actually shown that practicing gratitude regularly does have a positive impact on your health. People who write thank you notes, for instance, report increased happiness scores. I’m not sure how that’s measured exactly, but it certainly sounds like a good thing.

It’s great that people are promoting gratitude, and it’s fascinating that science seems to back up traditional ethical wisdom. But, to be honest, all of this actually makes me a little nervous… Is gratitude only valuable when it makes us feel good? Do we want to measure our morality by what increases our happiness scores?

Gratitude should be more than just an emotional experience.

Sometimes we do feel thankful, but sometimes we don’t. In difficult seasons of life that are filled with grief or pain, sometimes the feeling of gratitude is hard to come by. We’re in that stretch of time now that’s known as “the holiday season,” which can be particularly painful those who are experiencing loss or loneliness. We don’t have to be grateful for our suffering. We can, though, be grateful through our suffering, And that requires an understanding of gratitude that’s more than just feeling good.

Another concern I have with this trendy kind of thankfulness is that it can hide issues of injustice and inequity.

The hashtag #blessed is ubiquitous on social media, but it’s often used in response to a life of ease or wealth. People feel #blessed when they go on cushy vacations or can afford a fancy new gadget. Yet, the biblical concept of blessing goes much deeper than creature comforts. Jesus declares that it is the poor and hungry who are blessed. This clearly calls us to understand blessing in a way that looks beyond the possessions and privilege of this life.

I want to be clear: It is okay to be grateful when we are happy or enjoying the nice things we have! And – gratitude is still valuable even when that’s not the case.

Our scriptural texts this morning underscore this idea. Paul writes in Philippians that we should rejoice always, in all circumstances; he says we should bring everything to God with thankful prayer, not only the parts of our lives that are going well. That kind of gratitude isn’t optional or occasional. It’s a spiritual discipline. It’s not a feeling, but a practice, something that we commit to doing no matter what our present situation is like.

And then there’s the Deuteronomy text, which doesn’t just encourage giving thanks in all circumstances; it actually gives elaborate and specific instructions for how to do so. Even though Deuteronomy is an ancient text, from a completely different culture than our own, its prescribed process for giving thanks is still relevant. It even comes in four basic steps!

Number one: offer your first fruits in thanks to God.

The text means this literally, as in “bring some of the first crops that you harvest,” but this applies even to those of us who aren’t farmers. Offering your first fruits means you don’t leave gratitude to the bottom of your to-do list, something you do once you’ve covered all your other needs, paid all your other bills, completed all your other chores. Gratitude takes precedence.

For some people this means budgeting in a way that prioritizes charitable giving. For others, this means honoring commitments to volunteer their time, even when their schedules are full. Or, this can be as simple as pausing before you even get out of bed in the morning to breathe slowly in a moment of thanks for a new day. The point is not what you do but how you do it. Make gratitude a practice, and make it an important one.

Second, the Deuteronomy text says to give thanks where God dwells.

Well, great! You’re all here in church on Thanksgiving morning, so must have this one down! In the context of Deuteronomy, the place of worship wasn’t yet a permanent building like this, because the Israelite community was still a wandering one. This is why the text says, “Go to the place that God will choose as a dwelling.” Even though we do have a building, this instruction to go wherever God dwells speaks to the reality that God dwells so many places in the world, beyond the walls of any church. Anywhere you practice gratitude, it is an act of worship. Any time you give thanks, it is a form of prayer. The mystic teacher Meister Eckhart actually wrote, “If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.” In this way, we connect gratitude to awe and wonder. We are attentive to where God’s spirit is present and moving in the world. The whole earth is making joyful noise to God, the Psalmist says (Psalm 100:1), and when we join our voices to that chorus of praise, we are practicing gratitude.

So, make thankfulness a priority, recognize gratitude as an act of worship, and third: tell the story of what God has done for you.

Gratitude to God is meant to be shared, to be communal. The Deuteronomy text gives us model by recounting a story the ancient Israelites told:

My ancestors were wandering in a barren, dry wilderness, and famine almost killed them! But – God brought them into Egypt, where there was enough food. Then my ancestors were enslaved by the Egyptians! But – God heard their cries and rescued them. Then my ancestors ended up back in the wilderness, again struggling to survive. But – God showed them the way through and gave them a land of their own, a Promised Land that was lush and fruitful, Because God did these things, my ancestors survived and I am here now, on this good land, able to grow enough food to feed my family. I am thankful because God always sustained my ancestors and God always sustains me.

Even when things got really difficult– especially when things got really difficult– the Israelites told this story about how God had provided for them again and again. The church still tells this story today: you hear it often in our scriptures, our hymns, our liturgy. You hear this story in our prayers during Eucharist because it is about God’s provision. God feeds us – not only with physical sustenance, but also, as Jesus reminds us, with the bread of life that nourishes our souls.

God has provided for us spiritually in so many ways: through the gifts of the sacraments and the wisdom of the Word; through the sure promise of grace, the forgiveness of sins; through the guidance and comfort of God’s Spirit. Gratitude is our joyful response to God’s faithfulness and sufficiency.

The story you tell doesn’t have to be about ancestors wandering around in the desert. It can just be about the ways God’s spirit is moving in your life. How has God transformed your family, your marriage, your friendships? How has God been at work in your home, in your workplace, in your travels? How has God been speaking in your prayer life, in your learning, in your rest Telling these stories is part of giving thanks, part of practicing gratitude.

And finally, in the Deuteronomy text the culmination of this pattern of thanksgiving is a big celebratory meal. That’s the fourth step.

Sounds fitting in our American context, although I don’t imagine the ancient Israelites were eating much turkey. The biblical imperative is also clear that this meal isn’t just a party for family and friends; it’s a radical welcome for everyone. The text specifically says that “aliens who reside among you” should be invited. Those who cannot provide for themselves should be generously provided for. Caring for the hungry and poor, the ones Jesus called blessed, is a central part of this practice of gratitude. Even as they wandered in the wilderness, God called the people to share whatever they had. Now we are called to that task. Our thankful celebrations for all that God has done for us should always turn us outward to be signs of God’s justice and generosity in the world.

As we gather around our tables this holiday season, may we be cultivate a practice of gratitude that nourishes us for service, remembering that, at God’s table, all are welcome and there is always enough for everyone.

Amen.

When the situation in the world looks bleak, Reign of Christ Sunday is our reminder that God’s power of love, embodied in Christ on the cross, always wins, and that we are meant to be part of making God’s peaceful reign a reality.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Reign of Christ, Last Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 34 C
Texts: Jeremiah 34:1-6, Colossians 1:11-20, Luke 23:33-43

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

Things look bleak. It seems like evil is everywhere. Each day brings devastating news of destruction and violence. Everything is falling apart. Who is to blame for what’s happening? It’s the incompetent, immoral, irresponsible leader of the nation – at least, that’s Jeremiah’s conclusion.

In the passage we heard this morning, the Hebrew prophet is grieving the fate of his homeland Judah, which has fallen to the Babylonians. The Judean monarchy was just not strong enough to resist the foreign empire with its different culture, different values, and different gods. Babylon has conquered. And now the precious city of Jerusalem has been sacked! The sacred walls of the temple have brought to rubble! Many of the Judean people have been taken away into exile, while those who are left split into conflicting factions. And it’s all the fault of a couple crummy kings.

The prophet explains that kings are supposed to rule like shepherds, protecting the sheep from danger. But Judah’s most recent kings have been misguided leaders. They have let the flock scatter. The only chance now is that there might come a king righteous enough and powerful enough to pull the nation back together. There might, someday, be a good shepherd.

Hundreds of years after Jeremiah’s time, someone finally came along who seemed to fit the bill. Jesus came from humble beginnings, but he was descended from the right lineage, the line of David, just as the prophet had foretold. Jesus spoke with wisdom beyond his years. With merely a word, he could heal deformities and illness, cast out demons, and calm storms. He fed thousands with next to nothing and even raised to life a man four days dead.

Could this be, at last, the promised Prince of Peace, the chosen one, the Messiah? Could this finally be the good shepherd? Many people thought so. Jesus drew crowds and changed lives. Yet, his growing popularity made the authorities increasingly nervous. He challenged established religious and social norms, and claimed divine power. But, curiously, he didn’t amass any armies or incite insurrections. He led no coups, took up no weapons. How would he protect the people if he didn’t fight?

Eventually, the opposition against him got organized. They arrested Jesus. They hauled him before the authorities and put him on trial. Frustrated, they demanded of Jesus: “Are you a king or not?!” But even then Jesus didn’t fight, and they convicted him to death, a criminal’s death. Surrounded by angry mobs, he ended up on a cross outside Jerusalem, the same city whose destruction Jeremiah had mourned generations earlier.

In this moment, it seems like history is repeating itself. Things look bleak. It looks like evil has won. Another so-called “king” looks like another failed leader. One criminal hanging next to Jesus expresses this sentiment: “Some Messiah you are! You can’t save us now. You can’t even save yourself.” Instead of calling down righteous judgment on his foes, Jesus speaks forgiveness, even as he loses his life. Instead maintaining his authority, Jesus humbly gives everything away. What kind of king does that? Everyone can see that this is not the king they’d expected after all…

Well, not everyone. Not the criminal hanging on the other side of Jesus. He sees the situation differently.  He sees Jesus as a king. Even though it looks like Jesus has been defeated, he says, “Remember me when you come into your kingdom.” When this criminal looks at Jesus, he sees one who rules with mercy, not domination. One whose victory comes through sacrificial love, not retribution. That’s a different kind of power, and somehow, at the darkest moment, the most unexpected person recognizes it. Whatever Jesus’ reign will look like, he wants in. These are the final moments of this criminal’s earthly life. This man is dying, and yet the power he sees in Jesus gives him immense hope. He puts his complete trust in Jesus, even on the cross, and so he says, “Remember me.” And in return, Jesus speaks acceptance and promise. He tells the criminal, “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”

This encapsulates the kind of power that the Triune God wields: a power that offers forgiveness for even the gravest of sins; a power that finds lost ones and carries them to Paradise; a power that brings abundant life out of certain death. This is, indeed, the promised messiah, the prince of peace, the savior of the world.

It’s no wonder that people failed to recognize it in Jesus, failed to see a king in the crucified – the reign of Christ is unlike any other. It’s still difficult to put our hope in the cross. It’s tempting to trust in the kind of power that rules with might, rather than the kind of power that empties itself in compassion. It’s especially hard to put our hope in the cross when we reach those moments in history when things look bleak, and the news is devastating, and national leaders are a disappointment.

Reign of Christ Sunday, the liturgical festival we celebrate today, serves as a reminder that – no matter how the situation looks – the power of sacrificial love has already won. Our ultimate ruler and judge, stands above and beyond the ups and downs of history. This festival was added to the Christian calendar almost a century ago, in the wake of World War I, as authoritarianism was gaining momentum around the world. Its message is no less critical to the present moment.

On this Sunday, we come to the story of Jesus on the cross and we encounter the power of God in Christ. It may look like weakness by human standards, but this power actually makes us strong. As Paul writes in Colossians, through Christ we are able to endure whatever the world brings. Christ holds the whole creation together and reconciles us all to God. That is a word of hope for every moment of human history.

Generations after this liturgical festival was instituted, it calls us to remember Christ, whose kingdom has come and is yet coming. When we pray together in worship, “Your kingdom come,” we invoke God’s desire for our world, a vision of peace, justice, and love that stands against earthly systems of violence, oppression, and greed. And we are meant to be a part of making God’s reign real: to be instruments of that peace, advocates for that justice, embodiment of that love – not just individually, but in our families, our communities, our congregation. Together, we live the sacrificial way of the cross, knowing that it is, always, the way of life, and trusting fully that God-in-Christ, our good shepherd, goes before us and goes with us on the way.

Amen.