The One Who Knows How to Turn on the Lights

Scripture Lessons: Genesis 1: 1-5 and John 1: 1-9 Sermon Title: The One who can turn on the Lights Preached on 12/17/17 Every night our girls humor me by asking me to tell them a story, and last Monday Night Lily wanted to hear a story about when I was her age, so I told her about how when I was 8, my favorite school lunch at Hickory Hills Elementary School was something called a taco boat. You might remember those things. The taco shells were flat, but pulled up on the edges like a square corn pie crust, and the lunch ladies would scoop taco beef into them, then lettuce and salsa. I remember all that because this was my favorite school lunch, and talking about these taco boats reminded me of one day when I was going through the lunch line with my best friend Matt Buchanon. I was new at Hickory Hills in 3rd grade when I was Lily’s age, and Matt was in 3rd grade too but had been at the school longer so he was kind of showing me the ropes. We were going through the line, and right before we got to the cash register he says, “Watch this.” Lunch was 85 cents in those days, and Matt pulled out a dollar, handed it to the lady, and said to her, “Keep the change” and with the wink, he walked to our table. I thought this was the coolest thing I had ever seen. It was like was going through the lunch line with James Dean or something. So, I take out my dollar, hand it to the lady, “keep the change” I say, but she handed me back my 15 cents. The moral of the story: some people have it and some people don’t. That’s just the way it is. Sometimes you just have to stay in your lane, and Matt Buchanon was the Fonz of Hickory Hills and I was lucky to be his less cool sidekick, which was fine because you have to know who you are – and you have to know who you are not. I’m not Matt. I’m also not Sara. There was a month when Sara asked me to take over paying the bills for our family. She gave me instructions, all the passwords. It was still the most stressful month of my life. She’s also who the girls want when they’re sick – unless there’s throw-up involved. That’s me. And when we all leave the house in the morning Lily and Cece both say, “I love you Mama. You’re the best Mom ever.” They love me too, I know that, but there’s something about a mom. That’s just how it is, and that’s fine because it’s good to know who I am and who I’m not. There’s freedom in coming to terms with that, and there’s suffering if you never do – so it is with some joy that I say I’m just Joe. Not Matt, not Sara, not Jesus either, and while that last one may sound the most obvious of all, I’m not the only mortal who attempts to live up to immortal standards. I’m not the only human who has trouble accepting the reality of his human-ness. Consider just the last two campaign slogans for President of the United States. I’m not trying to make a particularly political statement. I just want to say this morning that all those supporters who believe that President Trump is powerful enough to go right up to Washington and “Make America Great Again” are going to be disappointed, because no mortal can do it – especially not on his own. But this is politics. Human politicians promising the impossible. They say they can do these things that they can’t, and we are fools to believe them. You remember President Obama’s campaign slogan? Hope. No human should promise that because hope is not ours. We mortals have to come to terms with mortality. We have to understand the limits of our power. We have to know who we are and who we are not – and that’s why it’s important that we go back to the river this morning – back to the Jordan River to visit John for the 2nd Sunday in a row. And who is John? There’s some descriptive information about him in our 2nd Scripture Lesson, but this passage gives us mostly a description of who he is not: “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.” So, who’s John? He’s not the light and he knows it. A preacher and Bible Scholar named David Bartlett said it like this: “What Would Jesus do?” the button asks. He would walk on water, give sight to the blind, and raise the dead.” We have to know who we are not – and who we are not is the light of the world. That sounds obvious enough, but it’s not. Or it’s not for me any way. Last Sunday I was nervous, and it was because I was confused about my limits. I was thinking all Saturday after we’d made the decision not to cancel the 11:15 service – that if these people are going to go through all the trouble of getting here on a snow day, I better have a pretty good sermon. That might be true, but you’re not here for me. If I spend all this time pointing to myself, if this church becomes all about me or you or anyone else, if the focus of our attention is on what any mortal has to say and think and do, then we are a shell of the Church that we could be. Because it’s not me or my words that matter. It’s who I’m talking about. It’s who they’re singing about. It’s who we’re praying to. It’s who we honor and thank with our tithes and offerings. The focus of our praise must never be on a mortal. For it is the call of we humans to use our words and actions to point to the One who spoke light into the world. A great theologian, some would say the greatest of the 20th Century, was a man named Karl Barth. From 1921 until his death, over his desk hung a copy of a painting by Matthias Grunewald. In the center of the painting hangs Christ crucified, and to one side stands John the Baptist – one hand raised and pointing to the Light of the World. “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light. He himself was not the light” and what we can learn from John is that John the Baptist knew he wasn’t. He knew himself well enough that he knew who he was, the gifts that God had given him, and he used those gifts so well because he pointed to someone worth pointing to. He is, therefore, the very definition of humble. The definition of humble is simple. It’s knowing what you can do and what you can’t do, who you are and who you are not. And John was a messenger, not the light itself. We can learn a lot from just that. After all, this is a time of year when everyone is going overboard. Doing too much. Attempting to make real the impossible. Trying to make someone’s dreams come true. This time of year, we forget who we are and who we are not, and that leads to doomed expectations. Grandma died, so someone is going to try to make macaroni and cheese just like she always made it. But even if it’s perfect, we can’t bring grandma back. And last Christmas Charlie was disappointed, so someone here is going to find the perfect thing in the perfect size, but listen – be realistic – you can’t buy joy. You just can’t. Even if this Christmas you were to wake up to a Lexus in your driveway with a big red bow on it, you’ve shot for the moon without reaching it, because you can’t be hope, you can’t be Christmas Joy, and you can’t be the Light of the World, and if we’re busy trying to be that, not only are we doomed to frustration, but we’re missing out on the blessings that our God longs to give if we just stop trying to provide them ourselves. We’re trying to scrape by on your own while he promises abundant life. We’re trying to fill the table for a feast, but he’s the one who turns water into wine. And maybe we’ve thrown some Christmas lights in the tree, but he’s the light of the world. A preacher named Bob Woods tells a story about the light in a cave. This couple took their son and daughter to Carlsbad Caverns. The tour of this cave is like a lot of them. The guide takes you way down there, to the cave’s deepest point underground, and then turns off the lights, just to show how dark darkness can be. Enveloped in complete darkness, the little boy began to cry. Immediately was heard the quiet voice of his sister who said, “Don’t cry. Someone here knows how to turn on the lights.” You see – this time of year we’re busy talking about remembering grandma through the perfect replication of her macaroni and cheese, while Jesus is coming to make the dead alive. We’re busy searching the internet for the greatest gift money can buy while Jesus is born bringing hope to the world. And up in Washington DC they’re doing very mortal things while promising what only God can give – so do not be deceived. Do not be frustrated. Instead, look to the Manger because the one who knows how to turn on the lights is coming. Our Clerk of Session, Carol Calloway, and I were texting back and forth last Saturday trying to decide what to do about opening the church. I asked her if she had power back yet and she wrote me back, “I am very aware of where our real power comes from. Being without power kinda makes that obvious.” My friends, there are limits to human power, but rejoice in this: the one who knows how to turn on the lights is coming to be with us. Amen.

The Voice of One Crying Out in the Wilderness

Scripture Lessons: Isaiah 40: 1-11 and Mark 1: 1-8 Sermon Title: The Voice of One Crying Out in the Wilderness Preached on 12/10/17 This has been an interesting weekend. It snowed. It’s the very thing we hope for in December, and after enjoying it for about two hours we want it to go away. Isn’t that funny? But that’s life. This week got off to an interesting start for me – it had me really thinking. Lily, Cece, and I were on our way to school Monday morning on our bikes, running a little behind before we had even made it out of the house, and you know how those mornings are – we were late so we became later. Someone had snuck into our house and hid all the shoes and backpacks in places we couldn’t find them. So, after several delays, we finally made it down our steep driveway and we were well on our way when I realized that I was peddling but my wheels weren’t moving. I stopped to see if the chain was off, but it actually seemed as though my chain ring was no longer properly attached to the wheel. That was a problem, and this was one of those frustrating moments – we were already running late; my daughters were ahead of me – their peddles worked you see, and so they had already made it across the street and were on their way around a corner. I didn’t know what to do or how to catch up, and just then, Whitt Smith, who was a year ahead of me at Marietta High School, he stopped in his pickup truck to say, “Ya’ll are running a little late for school.” That was true, but it seemed like an obvious point to make. Then I told him my bike wasn’t working. He told me to throw it in the back of his truck, that he’d drop it off back at our house so I could catch up with Lily and Cece and get them to school safely. I did, and we were only about 15 minutes late for school. Under reason for being tardy I wrote “bike problems,” and then wondered if anyone had ever thought up that excuse before, but here’s the real question that I want you to ponder with me: On my walk from Westside Elementary School to the church, what will occupy my thoughts? Will I spend this quite time walking along the sidewalk stewing in the frustration from a malfunctioning bicycle – or, will I rejoice in thanksgiving for the kindness of an old friend who stopped to lend me a hand with my bike when I needed it? It’s been like this for me all weekend – will I enjoy the snow for the rare gift that it is, or will my cheer be overcome by frustration because the power’s out and so I can’t make coffee properly? I can tell you how it’s been for me – and I don’t like it. I’d much rather focus on how it was for our children who know how to enjoy a gift. We adults – we don’t always see so well. Snow looks like an inconvenience. A friend’s display of kindness gets lost amid frustration. Miracles happen – but we don’t always see them. I’m afraid that it’s always been this way. It’s been this way since the beginning. We just read the opening verses of the Gospel of Mark. The first line there is “the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God,” and while this first line seems standard enough, consider all the other news that hit the papers that Monday morning 2,000 years ago competing for attention: It was the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, but in addition to that, back in ancient Israel, Herod was the king, and his rule was oppressive and tyrannical. His primary concern being building palaces rather than establishing order and fairness. But not only was their plenty of reason for good people to be consumed with hatred of the local government, Rome was the power that controlled the known world – and Rome maintained that control through public violence, any who rose up in protest were nailed to crosses that marked the major roads into cities. These crosses, they were like our billboards and as you entered Jerusalem they were your warning not to step out of line. Think of that. This good news of Jesus Christ that the Gospel of Mark speaks of – it was first proclaimed in a time when most people believed there was only bad news. Had we been there with them, we would have heard about the Good News among a chorus of government control, taxation, oppression, and poverty – for just as it has been true of us this weekend, so it has always been - in the midst of real, human life – this is when we choose to hear the good news. And I said choose. That’s what I meant. For the Good News is a light – but it’s a light in the darkness. It is a whisper in the cacophony of a city street. The news is good – but it’s good in the midst of bad, so we must be practiced in how we listen and where we focus. Because we have to filter through all the chaos to get to the beauty and the truth. Back in ancient Israel, in order to hear it, some had to leave the city, and they went out to a place where they could listen – they went out to the river to see John. Did you catch those details about John from our 2nd Scripture Lesson? Clothed in camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey. Who looks like that? Who expects to be taken seriously looking like that? I once had the chance to ask this big time, New York City preacher for advice and he looked me up and down and told me that I need to shine my shoes. That was it. My confusion must have shown because he explained – Presbyterians are respectable people who expect you to look like someone worth taking seriously, and that’s true. I know not to wear my Christmas suit in the pulpit on a Sunday morning, but what do we do with John? What did he wear? A business suit? No. A robe? No. Two articles of clothing did he wear, a camel hair something and you can bet it wasn’t a sport coat, then a belt, nothing more. Why listen? Because that’s what prophets wear – that’s why. And just because we’re used to listening to the news in the paper and the news on TV, sometimes it’s from weird looking prophets that you hear the real truth. But that makes listening hard. That means discernment. Because often times it’s lies coming through a bullhorn while the truth is proclaimed by a man dressed in camel hair. We have to learn how to listen – how to focus our attention, because we’re distracted. I saw a truck advertisement last week. Two little girls in the back seat looking at their IPads: “The new 2018 Ford F-150 with SYNC Connect and available Wi-Fi means you and the family can stay connected.” Connected? What do we mean by connected? How are we supposed to hear with all these distractions? How are we supposed to be a family with all the entertainment? Today is the 2nd Sunday of Advent, and today we are called on to consider peace, and to prepare for peace’s coming in the birth of our savior. But how if we don’t even know what being connected means anymore? To start, I challenge you, as I challenge myself, to choose how you’ll focus. To watch for beauty, and to listen for truth. A Bible scholar named Walter Brueggemann says it like this: It is written in Deuteronomy that the poor will always be with you. It is written elsewhere that there will always be wars and rumors of wars. It is written in the American psyche that the big ones will always eat the little ones. It is written in the hearts of many hurting ones that their situation will always be abusive and exploitative. It is written and it is believed and it is lived, that the world is a hostile, destructive place. You must be on guard and maintain whatever advantage you can. It is written and recited like a mantra, world without end. [But] In the middle of that hopelessness, Advent issues a vision of another day, written by the poet, given to Israel midst the deathly cadence. We do not know when, but we know for sure. The poet knows for sure that this dying and killing is not forever, because another word has been spoken [but will hear it?] There was a lady I once knew. She was hard to visit, because she never had anything nice to say. She was always sick, so I’d go to her home or to her hospital room. She was always cold, and in the summer time she’d bring a toboggan to put on in the sanctuary because she didn’t like the air conditioning. She was huddled up under blankets this one day when I went to see her in her home, and she cried and cried telling me that no one from the church ever called, which broke my heart to hear – but in that moment the phone rang, because Doris from the church wanted to check and see how this lady was doing. My mouth hung open because of the miracle, but this lady hung up the phone and said, “Where was I, oh yes – no one from the church ever calls me. It’s horrible!” It’s like the hymn says: And man, at war with man, hears not The love song which they bring; O hush the noise, ye men of strife, And hear the angels sing. They do sing and they will sing, but we have to be quite and calm enough to listen. We have to be careful with what we pay attention to. And we have to watch our hearts – because you and I can stew all day long on what doesn’t ultimately matter, while ignoring the miracles. They are like the voice of one crying out in the wilderness. Listen – because that’s hope calling. Amen.

Restore us, O God; Let Your Face Shine, That We May Be Saved

Scripture Lessons: Psalm 80: 1-7 and 17-19, and Isaiah 64: 1-9 Sermon Title: Restore us, O God; Let Your Face Sine, That We May Be Saved Preached on December 3, 2017 Today is a special day. All Sundays are special of course. I used to work with a Music Director who said that the most important Sunday of the year is the next one coming up, but today is a special Sunday - the first Sunday of Advent, plus we have these new hymnals, we have communion. I have an early memory of communion here at this church. I was a couple years older than Doug and Andy Miller, who were twins and close friends with Mickey Buchanan, and the first time those three were allowed to sit by themselves in a worship service it was a communion Sunday. I guess they were 8 or 9 and when the bread came they did just what they were supposed to do, but when the cup came, before drinking they all toasted each other with the tiny little communion cups. It’s amazing what kids do without their parents sitting close by, but the truth of the matter is that when no one is watching, all people act a little differently. Even a little bit of freedom can be dangerous for anyone. I remember the first-time wine was served at Sara’s family’s Thanksgiving dinner. It was several years ago now, and when we gathered around the Thanksgiving table with my wife Sara’s family, the adult places at the table came complete with a wine glass, and while that may sound normal enough, this is something that never would have happened if Aunt Ester were alive. While Aunt Ester was alive, all alcohol was forbidden, and every Thanksgiving dinner at her house, a group of us dissenters, we would assemble with sweet tea in our glasses – but we were mad about it. We’d huddle together on the deck or front yard, just out of ear shot from the matriarch – and together we’d dream about the day when prohibition would end on our corner of Knoxville, Tennessee. It did. Wine was served the first Thanksgiving after Aunt Ester’s funeral. That year Thanksgiving was hosted by another member of the family who was excited to take up the torch, and Aunt Janie was not a teetotaler, so not all, but many members of the extended family quietly sipped from wine glasses at that first liberated Thanksgiving, whispering to one another, “This never would have happened if Aunt Ester were still around”. The next year, wine was served more openly, then by the third year everyone was just about comfortable; but by the fourth year after Aunt Ester’s death – the invitation to this big Thanksgiving dinner for the whole extended family never came. The host family needed a year off, and Aunt Janie asked that families celebrate their own thanksgiving, a meal for all the cousins and everyone at her house was just too much. We all understood. And we gave thanks in smaller numbers, around dining room tables in Atlanta, Washington DC, Knoxville, and Spartanburg, SC, all looking forward to getting back together the next year. But another year passed. Then another without the invitation, and now we don’t even look for it, so today, on Thanksgiving we take the wine for granted, but we miss our extended family. Now a Thanksgiving where we don’t all get together - that never would have happened if Aunt Ester were still around. Do you know this feeling? You’re finally free to do what you want, only the freedom is not as wonderful as you thought it would be. Maybe you’ve been like me, unsupervised at Home Depot, shopping for Christmas lights, buying without moderation, only to get home to wonder, “Where am I going to put all these Christmas lights?” Freedom is not always what it’s cracked up to be. Hear again these words from the Prophet Isaiah: “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down. Because you hid yourself we transgressed. We have all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth.” What the Prophet means here is that without God, the people left unsupervised have so lost track of who they are that they call on God to return even if it means punishment. “Because you hid yourself we transgressed. We have all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth. We all fade like a leaf, and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away.” According to the Isaiah we are all like kids who come home from school to an empty house. The computer is locked, but we figured out the password, and the liquor cabinet is too, but we’ve had enough time to find the key. No one is there to stop us. As adults, we face the same problems with freedom - we spend what we want on credit cards sent in the mail, because we’ve been given the freedom to take on debt, even debt that we’ll never emerge from. We eat what tastes best, forgetting the doctor’s orders even when it jeopardizes our health. We speak without thinking, act without thought to consequence. Sometimes when I read the headlines of the paper it reminds me of that book I read in English Class years ago: Lord of the Flies. We have freedom, but Piggy’s dead and we need some real grown-ups to save us from ourselves. We’re losing decency and moderation. Even our leaders speak without thinking, take without asking, because no one is around to supervise us. Maybe you saw the political cartoon in this morning’s paper. “More harassment Charges” is the headline and the woman says to a friend – “I used to have coffee with my morning shows, popcorn with my moved…now, I just eat tums.” The Prophet cries out to God: “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down,” because you are the glue that holds us together and if you are gone than things fall apart. “You hid yourself, we transgressed,” because temptation is too much if you are not there to stop us. “You have hidden your face from us, and have delivered us into the hand of our iniquity.” We have done all this – created a world of materialism where we all rush through giving thanks to get to spending more money than we have. We work and we work, and no one is there to tell us when to stop, so tension rises in our homes. There is no rest, even on the Sabbath, because who is there to speak over the loud voice of our culture that never stops telling us to produce and spend? And so, we are entertained, but seldom happy. Our bellies are full without ever being satisfied. We keep going at a fools pace, but where are we headed? “We have all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth. We all fade like a leaf, and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away.” Deliver us Lord, from the hand of our iniquity. Come, Lord Jesus, we cry, for we are like grown children home from college, sleeping on God’s couch, lulled into the illusion that we own the place and can do what we want. But he’s coming back. We anticipate his birth during this season of Advent, preparing for his arrival as a precious mother’s child. May your prayer and mine this Advent Season be a simple one: Restore us, O God; Let Your Face Sine, That We May Be Saved from our selves. And in His face, see the abundant life that can be ours. Amen.