A sermon for the First Sunday after Christmas Day, December 31, 2023. The scriptures are Isaiah 61:10-62:3, Psalm 147, Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7, and John 1:1-18.

A friend of mine who is a priest in Ohio, posted a photo on Friday, December 29, remembering that it was the feast day for St. Thomas Becket, and the image has really stayed with me.  The photo showed the shrine altar in Canterbury Cathedral near where it is believed Thomas Becket was murdered in 1170. The altar is small and not that significant, but over it is a contemporary sculpture, done in 1986. It’s in the shape of a crude, almost abstract cross, but on both of the arms of the cross are two swords. The light makes it look like four swords (the two iron ones and their shadows) and the piece is meant to represent the four knights who killed Becket. They killed Becket because of what they thought they understood the King to have said, and the sculpture reminds me of the power and danger of words.

Becket was King Henry II’s Archbishop of Canterbury, and the two became locked in a power struggle. The story goes that the King had just learned that the Archbishop had excommunicated several of the bishops who supported the king. So King Henry said muttered something like, “Who will rid me of this troublesome priest?” And the word was heard by the knights who were eager to show their support of the king. The saintly and holy Thomas Becket, who was not afraid of standing up to power, died because of a word. A word misplaced, a word mis-spoken, perhaps a word mis-heard.

Words matter. They can and do hurt. A little girl thinks she is ugly, does so only because someone has called her ugly. A little boy thinks he’s dumb, not because he is, but because someone has called him dumb. Words shape us. If we were to look back over our lives, I’m sure we could recall times when a word has stuck us as a weapon almost, and it has hurt. Perhaps just as painfully, in a spirit of confession, I bet most of us could recall a time when we’ve used words as weapons and hurt others.

In our day, a word in a tweet or an email can easily be misunderstood. Words whispered, like “racist, sexist, antisemitic, homophobic”—whether true or not—can damage a reputation, stall and advancement, or ruin a career.

Words can hurt, but words just as surely can heal. A well-chosen and well-placed word can offer encouragement, hope and life. I remember well the morning of my ordination to the priesthood. There were seven of us to be ordained. Our families, friends, and parishes had all gathered at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. We were already nervous when the Canon for Liturgy asked all of us seven to meet the bishop in a side chapel. We immediately wondered if someone’s paperwork had not come through, or if there were some scandal brewing that no one knew about. Every conceivable problem went through our minds. And then the bishop came into the chapel.

Taking a deep breath, Bishop Sisk prefaced his remarks as you might imagine—commenting on the gravity of the day, the ontological change about to take place in our souls, the life for which we would be responsible for living in the future, and then he said, “So, I have something to say to you that I hope you’ll remember. Be nice.” Just a couple of words—well- chosen words that I complete fail at remembering or living out—but words I aim for.

It is no coincidence that our Biblical account of creation happens by a word. “The earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters. And God said, God said, “Let there be light.” And there was light. God said, Let there be this, and let there be that, and after each thing was created, God spoke a single word again: “Good,” God said, “It’s all very, very good.” 

The Word was busy, shaping and making and proclaiming and blessing. The Gospel of John picks up on this power of a word to create. “In the beginning was the Word,” John says, “and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it….And the Word became flesh.”

When John speaks of the “Word,” the Greek term he uses is Logos, and Logos meant more than just a word, more even than all words put together. Way back in Greek philosophy, in the 3rd century BC, Heraclitus said that the Logos “governs all things.” And yet, the Logos is also present in the everyday. Later, the Stoics took up the idea of the Logos and used it to mean the principle that orders the universe. So when John uses Logos, or Word, he’s using a term that would have worked as a kind of hyperlink, culturally. To say that the Word was with God and the Word was God, and then to say that this Word, this ordering principle of the universe is completely summed up in Jesus of Nazareth, John was pulling together a lot of different ways of understanding the world. He was describing in his context, what it meant for God to be born in the world. John used a word to bring together different worlds.

While Jesus was born once in the event we celebrate at Christmas, he is also born again and again in our own lives and in our world wherever we make his love known. One way we can bring Christ into our world in through our words.

Just as we know words can hurt, so, through the love of Christ, our words can take on
additional power to heal, to love, and to lift up. Guided by the Holy Spirit, our words can do much more than simply offer kindness, though in our world, that is no small thing. But even more, informed and influenced by the Spirit, our words can offer life and love to those who may have forgotten how such words even sound.

As we look toward a new year, I’m hoping to watch my words very carefully. I’m going to be praying that my words might help and heal rather than criticize or tear down. I invite you also to think about your words, pray about your words, and may God guide us all to speak truth, to speak for justice and to speak in love.

May God be in our head, and in our understanding;
God be in our eyes, and in our looking;
God be in our mouth, and in our speaking;
God be in our heart, and in our thinking;
God be at our end, and at our departing.

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

A brief homily for Christmas Day, December 25, 2023. The scriptures are Isaiah 52:7-10, Psalm 98, Hebrews 1:1-12, and John 1:1-14.

Yesterday at our 5:00 Family Service, we sang carols, we heard the Gospel and a story about Christmas, we received the Holy Eucharist, but at the very beginning of the service, we gathered around the Christmas crèche and asked God’s blessing. After the blessing, most of us returned to our seats—except for Theo. Theo, who’s 11 now, was noticeable early on because he decided that Christmas Eve was the perfect time to war his owl wings, left over from his Halloween costume. And there’s something about our crèche, our nativity scene with figures, that Theo really likes. I remembered how, a few years ago, when he was even smaller, he was plopped down inside, among the animals, talking to the figures and seeming completely at home.   I remember his parents Ann and Aaron, sort of looking at me with that helpless parental look of, “We hope this is ok… there was nothing we could do…” Then, as last night, Theo was in exactly the right place.

No crèche is perfect in its representation of the Holy Family.  No nativity scene covers all the bases.  And today, as we try so hard to mirror the diversity of God’s designs in creation, it’s not always easy to find figures that reflect that diversity.  Part of that is cultural, and part of that is personal—since any artist is bound to represent the Christmas story (at some level) as she or he imagines it, shaped by whatever culture and religious experience the artist knows.  Our crèche is from northern Mexico, and while it’s not exactly lily-white Caucasian, it is on the “lighter side,” and lacks some of the diversity we might hope for.  But it’s what we have, and with Theo the owl watching wisely and other kids finding their places in the story and among the figures represented, it was just about perfect.

Saint Francis of Assisi is credited with beginning the first nativity scene or crèche at Christmas. As Saint Bonaventure writes, Francis was visiting the village of Grecio, but he thought the Franciscan chapel there would be too small for Christmas Mass. So he found a niche in a rocky hill and

Then he prepared a manger, and brought hay, and an ox and an ass to the place appointed. The brethren were summoned, the people ran together, the forest resounded with their voices, and that venerable night was made glorious by many and brilliant lights and sonorous psalms of praise.

The account goes on to speak of a particular soldier from the town who was deeply moved by it all, as were the other villagers. It had not occurred to people to portray the biblical scene—such portrayals are the play of children—and yet, what better way to begin to place ourselves in the Christmas story, which is, after all God’s intention in coming into the world.

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace. [As Isaiah foretells] Of the increase of his government and peace there shall be no end.

A priest friend of mine who had served a church in Japan for a while used to collect Christmas crèches.  He and his wife had gathered maybe a hundred, in all, and every Christmas, their house would be like a United Nations of Holy Families:  African, Asian, Central American, Northern European, Inuit,… on and on.  Some were made of glass, some of metal, some of beadwork, and some of wood. They reflected a whole range of color and shape and size.

On this Christmas morning, at the end of our worship, everyone is invited to move over to the Memorial Chapel during the last hymn.  As we do so for our final prayers, I invite you to take a look at our crèche and to imagine what your own crèche might look like if you were to create it. Who would be represented?  Perhaps you’d include people who have helped to show Jesus Christ to you—family members, Sunday School teachers, choir directors, neighbors, a stranger. Perhaps you’d include a few literary characters or poets or musicians. Maybe you’d have Handel standing in for the piper, or a local produce person taking the place of the one who offers the apple to Jesus.  And maybe you’d include in your crèche those who do not yet know the presence and love of Jesus Christ—to imagine them close by and gathered around is one form of prayer and it’s a very good way of embracing others in the love of God.

In blessing the crèche yesterday we prayed that “all who see it [may] be strengthened in faith and receive the fullness of that life [Christ] came to bring.” May we continue to receive Christ, may we continue to love him, and may we continue to know him more deeply.

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

A sermon for Christmas Eve, December 24, 2023. The scripture readings are Isaiah 9:2-7, Psalm 96, Titus 2:11-14, and Luke 2:1-20).

There’s a song by Amy Grant that is played on some stations this time of year that captures the mood of many. She sings

I’ve made the same mistake before
Too many malls, too many stores
December traffic, Christmas rush
It breaks me till I push and shove
Children are crying while mothers are trying
To photograph Santa and sleigh
The shopping and buying and standing forever in line
What can I say?
I need a silent night, a holy night
To hear an angel voice through the chaos and the noise
I need a midnight clear, a little peace right here
To end this crazy day with a silent night

“I need a Silent Night,” 2008.

A lot of us might feel like we need a silent night, or even a silent hour. We might feel like we need some peace, and yet— with the world being what it is (warfare, political upheaval, so many people simply trying to get by and feed their children, so many just wanting a day without pain… how do we dare pray for personal peace?  Isn’t God busy enough without add us to the list?

The answer from the heart of Christmas is NO—God is never too busy to bring peace, because God IS peace.

The 18^th century holy man, Seraphim of Sarov, said, “Acquire the Spirit of Peace and a thousand souls around you will be saved.”

That can sound pollyannaish and make-believe, except for when you see it happening, or feel its power.

The angels sing Glory to God and Peace to God’s people on earth because they see the plan and the possibility that through a little baby, peace can have a ripple effect. Through the teachings of Jesus, the peace of Christ takes on specific form, and through his death and resurrection, his peace becomes a whole energy force for new life and new love.

Peace is possible, but it always begins inside, and no matter how weak or insignificant it might seem at first, peace can grow into something unimaginable.

Like me, you probably read Henry David Thoreau in junior high or high school.  I remember being a little bored by him, and wondering why he was so important.  Perhaps I missed a lot of what was said, but it was only recently, in reading a book by Stephen Cope, that some of the dots tracing back to Thoreau were connected for me. (See Stephen Cope’s wonderful boo, The Dharma in Difficult Times: Finding Your Calling in Times of Loss, Change, Struggle, and Doubt, Hay House, Inc., 2022.)

In 1846, Thoreau spent a night in jail in Concord, MA, because he refused to pay his poll tax. He refused out of principle, since he wanted to speak out against the US government’s treatment of Native Americans, the government’s culpability in slavery, and the then-current move by Texas to annex part of Mexico. After his aunt bailed him out of jail, Thoreau retreated to Walden Pond and sought peace, a deep peace informed by reading and meditating, and thinking. 

Two years later, Thoreau decided to speak out of this peaceful place, and announced that he would do so at the Concord Lyceum. His talk was entitled, “The Relationship of the Individual to the State.” The reception was tepid and much of the crowd left almost in silence. When Thoreau published the talk in 1849, the response fizzed again.

But then, in 1866, four years after Thoreau’s death, the essay was republished, “Civil Disobedience.” As such, this became a manual of civil disobedience for Gandhi, and through Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Nelson Mandela. It was the template for what John Lewis understood as “good trouble.”

It’s not only all right that we pray for peace. It’s essential, because external peace-making only happens as a result of deep, internal peace-making.

This Christmas may the peace of Christ touch your heart and begin to grow. And may God’s Spirit fan the flames of peace within each of us, so that there might be new possibilities for peace in the world.

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

A short homily offered at the Service of Lesson and Carols on Christmas Eve, December 24, 2023.

A few weeks ago, I joined some friends to walk through the Cloisters, the Medieval part of the Metropolitan Museum. A must see at the museum, especially in this season, is The Annunciation, by from the 14^th century workshop of Netherlands artist, Robert Campin.

You may know the piece, nicknamed the Merode Altarpiece. The Virgin Mary is quietly reading from her book of prayers and the Angel Gabriel is announcing the news that she will have a child. Joseph is quietly working in the woodshop to the right, and a couple (probably the donors) are kneeling on the left panel. It’s all very orderly, as though Gabriel’s message to Mary was the most normal thing in the world—just another Tuesday morning during prayers.   That’s one vision of the Annunciation.

I prefer another version, one that we discussed earlier this month in our Adult Education time, the Annunciation by Henry Ossawa Tanner at the Philadelphia Museum.  In this amazing painting from 1898, Tanner shows a young Mary sitting on the edge of her bed, awakened, wondering, and somewhat afraid. To the left is the Angel Gabriel, but appearing not as a figure but as a pilar of light—blinding, warming, radiating light.  Over to the right is the blue garment so often associated with Mary, but here, she has yet to put it on, as though she’s questioning. Will she say yes? Will she go through with this? Or will she let fear get the best of her?

Some have suggested that FEAR can be an acronym representing Forget Everything And Run.  Tanner’s Annunciation makes me wonder if Mary isn’t considering doing just that—running in the other direction, leaving the blue mantle for someone else to wear.

Forget everything and run. Fear can do that.

We’ve heard about fear in tonight’s readings. Fear in the garden of Eden, as Adam and Eve are afraid to see God after they’ve disobeyed.  The prophets promise of days to come when God will forget all sin, clear away all obstacles, and gather all God’s beloved close and tight.  There’s the obvious fear of Mary in front of Gabriel, and there’s surely some fear as Mary and Joseph go to Bethlehem for the census and prepare to give birth in a strange place.

But instead of forgetting everything and running in the other direction, Mary and Joseph move closer into God and closer to one another.

So often, I hear people say that the opposite of fear is faith, and I suppose it feels that way sometimes.  But for me, even at most my fearful, I’ve still had faith, and I want to resist falling into the trap of somehow thinking that if I just have enough faith, there will be no fear. 

Frederick Buechner captures the essence of fear in his little description of the Annunciation. He describes the Angel Gabriel as saying to Mary, “You mustn’t be afraid, Mary.” But then, Buecher imagines it, [As Gabriel said it] he only hoped she wouldn’t notice that beneath the great, golden wings he himself was trembling with fear to think that the whole future of creation hung now on the answer of a girl.” (Peculiar Treasures: A Biblical Who’s Who, p. 39.)

The opposite of fear is not faith.   It’s LOVE.  I’m grateful to a friend of mine, Father Stuart Hoke, for pointing this out.  He reminded me of the scripture in the First Letter of John: “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.” 1 John 4:18

And so when we’re afraid, I think we can do at least two things: 

We can do a loving act.
And we can make a loving prayer.

We can act in love—to help someone, to call someone, to send an email, to share a moment, or share resources.

And we can make a loving prayer—Picture someone in mind and pray that they would feel and know love, send a prayer of love to those people and places we see in the news that break our hearts. And send a loving prayer across the way in the subway, or in a store, or on the sidewalk.

Whether it’s fear of economic insecurity, or war, fear of losing those we love or of environmental changes, or even if it’s a vague, ambiguous fear we can’t even quite put into words, God invites us closer into Love—to receive love and to share love.

There is no fear in love, for perfect love casts out all fear.

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

A sermon for the Third Sunday of Advent: Gaudete (Rejoice) Sunday, December 17, 2023. The scripture readings are Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11, Psalm 126, 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24, and John 1:6-8,19-28.

This week, the theme of joy runs through our worship. Joy appears in our readings and music, some churches use rose-colored vestments today, in our Advent wreath, the rose colored candle is lit today. These all point to the significance of this Third Sunday of Advent, a day when the traditional entry hymn of the church has sung, “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice.”

These words from Paul’s Letter to the Philippians echo through our worship. In today’s first reading, Isaiah brings joy to a people in exile who are longing to go home. “He has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,” Isaiah says. “To bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; to provide for those who mourn in Zion—to give them a garland instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the mantle of praise instead of a faith spirit.”

There is joy from Isaiah, joy from the psalm that fills our mouths with laughter, and there is joy in St. Paul’s letter to the Thessalonians. But in the Gospel, joy is transformed into light. John explains that his job is to point to the light, to testify to the light, to bear witness. For John, this means that he helps people look to Jesus. And the invitation of today’s Gospel is that we might learn to do the same, that is, to bear witness to the light.

To bear witness to the love of God in Jesus Christ. To bear witness to the possibility of joy.

It is a Sunday of rejoicing, and a Sunday for remembering our task of sharing this joy with the world.

In our own day, and especially in our culture, it’s far easier to cozy up in the dark, to criticize and worry, and only to look forward with a sense of doom and gloom. If we wanted, we could use particular scriptures to encourage that feeling. We prepare for disaster pretty well. Perhaps it’s built into us. We know what it is to prepare with a sense of foreboding—for rough times economically. When someone we love is sick, we try to prepare emotionally. We try to prepare for continued global warming, continued wars abroad and the political wars to come. We can live much of our lives preparing for all sorts of calamities and disasters.

But John reminds us that, as Christians, we are also called to help prepare the way for joy. We are called upon to bear witness to the one is absolute light, who is absolute love, who is absolute God.

Many of you know that before joining the Episcopal Church, I was a Presbyterian. One of the very best pieces of the Reformed tradition is the opening of the Westminster Shorter Catechism. The first question asks, “What is the chief end of man?” In other words, why are we here? What are we made for? I love the answer, the answer is simply this: “Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him for ever.” To glorify God and to enjoy God for ever. There is joy in God.

We are called to the difficult work of bearing witness to the joy of God. Even in the midst of a dangerous and sometimes despondent world, we are called to bear witness to the joy possible in the life of God. We are called to shine in a world of darkness, with some aspect of the light of Christ we know, because it burns in us.

The 20th century priest and writer Henri Nouwen talked about the difference between happiness and joy.  He suggests that while happiness often depends on external, outward conditions, joy is “the experience of knowing that you are unconditionally loved and that nothing — sickness, failure, emotional distress, oppression, war, or even death — can take that love away.” (Here and Now: Living in the Spirit, 1994.)

Happiness is a gift and something I hope for everyone, but joy is a quality that runs deeper and grows with the Spirit of God.  Isaiah could weep for the people’s sins and have joy in God’s goodness all at the same time.  The psalmist could weep all night, but even through tears, knew that morning would come – one day, some day.  The Blessed Virgin Mary could enjoy every moment with her son and savior, while sensing all the while a sadness that would result in his death on the cross.

December 17, this year happens to be the Third Sunday of Advent, but if it were a weekday, in the Church of England’s calendar, it is also the day for commemorating a woman named Eglantine Jebb.  Born in 1876, Eglantine worked on behalf of a number of progressive causes, but especially felt called to action after World War I, when she began raising money on behalf of German and Austrian children, hurt by the war’s aftermath and an Allied blockade.  Though she was arrested for going against the wishes of the British government, she persisted and overcame the objections.  With her sister, Eglantine founded Save the Children, the organization that put forth a Declaration of the Rights of the Child, approved by the League of Nations and later adopted by the United Nations.  The organization has flourished and last year, Save the Children reached more than 157 million children in 120 countries. And yes, right now, Save the Children is trying to save the children in Gaza and Israel.

In the face of incredible darkness, Eglantine Jebb prepared for JOY.  She prepared for joy to break into the lives of millions of children and all those along the way whose lives are enriched and magnified in the process.  But what’s especially interesting (to me) about Eglantine Jebb is that she was not always joyous, herself.

She suffered from a thyroid condition, underwent three surgeries, and died at the age of 52. She loved writing but failed at publishing any of her novels.  She was often disappointed in love, she seemed to suffer from depression, and she did not even find herself especially comfortable with children.  But she prepared the way.

On this day of joy, and in this season of joy, may the light of Christ burn brilliantly in us and through us. And may we share the joy of Christ’s birth with the world.

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

A sermon for the First Sunday of Advent, December 3, 2023. The scripture readings are Isaiah 64:1-9, Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18, 1 Corinthians 1:3-9, and Mark 13:24-37.

On a nicer day when it’s not raining, I hope you’ll notice the West Porch, the steps and balustrade around it that lead to the West side entrance to the church. You may remember the balustrade was crumbling into the children’s playground, so it was moved up the priority list for restoration. The work if finally finished (well, actually, two pieces don’t quite fit, so they’re being remade and will be substituted later.) It cost just under $230,000 to do the work, and we are paying for it through a mixture of a donation by a parishioner, a grant from the Diocese, a loan from the Diocese, and money from our Preservation Property Trust, the small endowment the church keeps with which we can use the earned interest for capital repairs and major maintenance. 

And so, for about $200,000 reasons, I’ve been thinking a lot about terra cotta, which is clay, really. Each piece that goes into the balustrade, as well as most of the ornamental work all over and within our church—the spires and parapets, the gargoyles, the decorations, is made of terra cotta. To form each piece of terra cotta, a mold is made, the clay is formed, then fired in a kiln, then glazed, and finally put into place. Every stage requires care and craft, and a certain amount of artfulness.  Even though most of the terra cotta pieces we recently had made are geometric, each one received individual care and attention.

If anyone has ever worked with clay, you know that the object made really does come from the craftsperson.  A clay pot is shaped by the potter’s hands. Its image comes from the potter’s mind. The potter’s time and talent are expressed in the object. And sometimes, given the ingredients of the glaze or paint that might be used (especially in the old days of using lead glazes); the potter actually risks his or her personal health in crafting the object.

In firing up a kiln, in overseeing the process, sometimes the potter bears marks or wounds that result directly from the process of making pottery. For all of these reasons, it makes sense that Isaiah would use the image of the potter and the clay to express an aspect of our creation and existence from God.

In today’s reading Isaiah begins by lamenting the condition of the world. “O, that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence . . . to make your name known to your adversaries, so that the nations might tremble at your presence!” Isaiah is tired of people ignoring God and God’s ways, and so he’s asking God a question that comes up again and again in the scriptures, and maybe comes up in our own prayers—“Get ‘em, God. Make them pay. Why do you let the wicked prosper? Why don’t you do more for the poor and the oppressed?” Isaiah goes on for a bit, ranting and railing at God. But then, in the midst of his prayer, Isaiah begins to reconsider. Like a little child who throws a tantrum and then finally, exhausted, falls into the arms of her mother, Isaiah falls back into the arms of God. “Yet, O LORD, you are our Father.” And then, the line I like so much, “we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand.”

Isaiah begins in a vengeful, angry place and eventually moves to one of compassion. We might expect that in a prophet from the Hebrew Scriptures, but we may be surprised when we encounter language of wrath and vengeance from Jesus.

But that’s what it sounds like in today’s Gospel. Jesus speaks out of a tradition of Jewish apocalyptic literature, an old tradition in which people of faith looked to God to come and save them, especially when things in this world looked bad. Isaiah, Jeremiah, Joel, Ezekiel, and especially Daniel, all contain sections thought of as apocalyptic literature—literature that looks for the end of the world as we know it, as God ushers in a new reality for those who have kept the faith.

Christ tells us that everything has a process. Baking a loaf of bread has a preparation time, a time in which changes can be made and the actual bread formed and set, and then a time when the bread is baked and either must be eaten, given away, or will go bad. Everything has a process. People are born, grow mature, and eventually die. The world itself is created, groans and grows through maturity, and will one day come to an end.

But Jesus is saying simply this: The process continues. God is not finished with us yet. The end is not quite here. It may be tomorrow. Or it may be hundreds or thousands of years away. We don’t know, and it doesn’t accomplish much to muse on it. It will come when it will come. The point is—we’re in the middle now. There is still time—for us, and for others.

But we are still in God’s hands, able to be shaped and changed, and formed for good, formed for love.

The lessons we’ve heard today are not meant to scare us into right living or to make us so preoccupied with the Christ’s coming that we miss the holy right before us. Just the opposite. The intention is that we treasure each day, live it as best we can, and rejoice in the fact that we are all in process.

Today we begin the season of Advent, a season of waiting and watching, a season of God making and remaking things new. The symbols are all around us. The purple reminds us of the penitence of Lent (and Advent is as good a time as any for spiritual house cleaning) and of Jesus’ royalty—a kingship not like this world. The Advent wreath is another symbol of our waiting for increasing light, as each Sunday, another candle is lit. Those who keep Advent Calendars wait actively, as they open one window or door each day– a reminder that every new day brings a surprise from God.

The world may seem beyond repair, but the good news is that God isn’t finished with it yet. Our families may seem broken, but God isn’t finished yet. Our relationships may seem completely out of shape, our own lives might seem like a badly formed clump of clay, but the good news—the really great news, is that God the Potter is not finished with us yet.

May this season bring us increasing light, increasing joy, and increasing love.

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