December 24, 2018 – Christmas Eve
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Luke 2:8-20
 
In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!” When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.” So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger. When they saw this, they made known what had been told them about this child; and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them. But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.
 
 
As a child, I had a very rich interior life. I loved to spend time alone in my room.  I would lie on a hillside in our yard, stare at the sky, and get lost in the clouds for hours.  In school, I was often scolded for daydreaming.  And I fell in love with books - because books had the ability to take me even deeper into that interior world. 
 
A few years ago, it struck me that I hadn’t read a work of fiction in several years.  And I found that realization deeply disturbing, given my life-long love of books.  So, I bought a novel and set out to read it.  But I kept losing interest.  I would read one paragraph and then not have any idea of what I had just read because I was always thinking of something else.  And so, I put that book aside and bought another one.  But the same thing happened because I was always thinking of something else. I was always multi-tasking – this thing we’re constantly being told to do.  And this brought me to the sad conclusion that I had lost one of the great pleasures of my life – the ability to ponder. I had forgotten how to be quiet and allow my thoughts to run where they would.  
 
At first, I feared that this inability to concentrate might be a sign of illness.  It was, but not in the way I thought.  I was the victim of my electronic addiction. I was a victim of the relentless battles for my attention; the relentless onslaught of bad news; the relentless barrage of advertising.  In place of a book, I always had a device in my hand.  I went to bed with a device in my hand.  I was still reading a lot, but never one thing for very long because something else was always clawing for my attention. Maybe you know what I mean. 
 
Perhaps the worst part of that is that as our capacity for concentration has decreased, our capacity for fear has increased.  With each click, we are confronted with more bad news, and then worse news. So then we click and shop or we click and flirt.  Why do we do it?  Why this constant connection; this constant distraction?  I think we do it because we are deeply afraid of silence.  We are afraid of our own thoughts.  
 
In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night.  Then the angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.  But the angel said to them: “Do not be afraid.”
 
“Do not be afraid.”  This is the most-often repeated command in the entire Bible – far more than don’t kill or don’t steal or love one another?  And yet we don’t really take this commandment seriously.  The best we seem able to do is to put our fears on hold for a few days, mostly by activities or diversions.  Most of us will do that with Christmas, as we eat, drink, and make merry. But on Wednesday, there will be some breaking news that demands our attention.  On Wednesday, there will be credit card bills.  On Wednesday, there will be doctor’s appointments and work conflicts and family arguments. Tonight and tomorrow, we make merry. But what about Wednesday when all the excitement is over?
 
After the shepherds stopped fearing for their lives, the angel told them where Jesus was. And then a choir of angels sang “Peace on earth!”  When that spectacle was over, the shepherds set out to find this baby.  And Luke says that they went with haste – excitement crackling in the air.  And they found the Holy Family.  And they told them what the angels had said about this Child, the words tumbling out of their mouths as they spoke over one another.  After all, this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to them. 
 
But Mother Mary’s reaction to this incredible news was completely different from the shepherds.  Luke says that Mary “treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.”  And that strikes me as really significant as all the emphasis is put on glory and angels and shepherds and stars.  Why doesn’t Mary shout for joy at the words of the shepherds?  How did pondering help her to frame her reality?  
 
It’s a good question because Mother Mary’s reality was challenging to say the least: still a young teenager, a new mother, with a very confused husband, disappointed parents, a life-time of poverty on the horizon, living under an oppressive government, being a second-class citizen.  What did pondering do for her?
 
I think it made room.  I think it created space in her heart and in her mind for something new. Her fears were still there, but now there was also room for the promises of God.  There was room for faith.  
 
And that, it seems to me, is the key for how we actually obey this commandment to fear not.  It is not by filling our minds with as many diversions as we can.  It is not by filling our lives with noise and accumulation of things and the bolstering the illusions of control.  We learn to “Fear not” by making room for the Word of the Lord to dwell with and interact with all those things that frighten us.  
 
And what is that Word that Mary pondered?  Well, it became flesh and lived among, full of grace and truth.  That Word was born into poverty to teach us the real riches of living.  That Word healed the sick and fed the hungry and touched the unclean.  That Word upset religious and social conventions that got in the way of mercy.  That Word wept at the tomb of a friend, and danced at a wedding, and died a very human and painful. And that Word rose to new life in the midst of fear.  
 
I did learn to read fiction again, but it took time and practice.  I had to work at it and be deliberate about it.  --I’m still working on not being afraid, but I’m getting better.  I’m learning to make room for the Word of the Lord.  And Mother Mary continues to show me the way.

Advent 3, December 16, 2018
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Luke 3:7-18
 
John said to the crowds that came out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance. Do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor’; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.” And the crowds asked him, “What then should we do?” In reply he said to them, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” Even tax collectors came to be baptized, and they asked him, “Teacher, what should we do?” He said to them, “Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.” Soldiers also asked him, “And we, what should we do?” He said to them, “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.”
 
As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.
 
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When my grandmother died, we did what all families eventually do: we divided her things, each according to interest or need. Some of my cousins needed the furniture and appliances.  Some of my aunts thought they needed the jewelry. I didn’t really need anything, but there was one thing that I wanted.  Unfortunately, it was long gone – a victim of my grandparents’ moves to smaller and smaller places as they aged. 
 
My grandma was a great keeper of Christmas – the sacred and the secular joyfully mixed together. She saw no contradictions in the parties and shopping with church and nativities. She would sing Silent Night and Silver Bells in the same breath. 
 
And nothing represented her ability to mix the sacred and the secular better than the object that disappeared, the one I longed to have to remember her by. It was a little garish, a little too shiny, tacky really - but she loved it and I loved her and so I loved it too. It was a statue of Santa Claus, kneeling at the Manger.   It was THE secular symbol of the season bowing down to worship the One whose birth we all await.
 
I thought about that statue again this week as I read about the so-called “War on Christmas.”  It’s a battle that has raged for years now. In this culture war, some of us say things like: “Keep Christ in Christmas” or “Wise Men Still Seek Him” or “Jesus is the Reason for the Season.”  And I believe all of these things to be true.  But I also think that when we say these words, we are often drawing a proverbial line in the sand; a declaration that, above everything else this day might be, it really belongs to us - the followers of Jesus. 
 
On the other side of that great divide, there are those who say that while this festival began as a religious holiday, over time it has evolved into something completely different. They say that now it’s really more about family and travel and feasting and gifts.  They say that in a pluralistic society, where people practice many faiths or no faith, the holiday has become broader, by necessity, in order to encompass everyone.
 
So what do you think?  As for me, well, I am of both minds.  I think that the ship has already sailed on the commercialization and secularization of Christmas.  But I also see December 25 as one of the most holy days of the year.  I guess I am my grandmother’s grandson.
 
Sometimes I wonder what Jesus thinks of all this fighting over his birthday. Sometimes I wonder what Jesus thinks about all of our fighting in general.  And I suspect he is not pleased. I say that because during his ministry, Jesus was often dismissive of arguments about words.  You could say that he wasn’t so concerned with what we call orthodoxy – that is the right beliefs and the right words to describe them. Jesus always seemed more concerned with orthopraxy – that is the right behaviors in regard to our neighbors. 
 
And that is the setting for the Gospel lesson today.  A bunch of regular folks like us had gone out into the wilderness to hear the preaching of this character named John the Baptist.  Scholars say that many people believed that John was the Messiah because of preaching and popularity.  He was famous long before his cousin Jesus. 
 
I don’t know why John was so popular because his sermons weren’t exactly crowd-pleasers.  They didn’t make people feel good. Instead, after they gave up a days work and hiked for hours under the hot Mediterranean sun, this is how he greeted them: “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance. Do not begin to say to yourselves, “We have Abraham as our ancestor”; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the axe is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.”
 
When the Gospel of Matthew reports this same story, these harsh words are reserved for the hypocritical religious leaders.  But in Luke’s Gospel, it is the regular folks who get blasted by these words.  And instead of being offended, these people were convicted.  These people knew they needed to change.  And instead of storming off in a huff, they replied: “What then should we do?”
 
And that question, it seems to me, is not just a question about life in general.  It’s a question about Christmas and how we keep it. As this most holy day approaches, what should we do?  I dare say it’s not to fight over whether or not someone says Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays.  And I don’t think it’s simply about coming to church.  I don’t even think it’s about the intellectual belief that Christ is the Savior of the World.  It’s something far simpler and more profound.
 
“What then should we do?” they asked. And John replied: “If you have two coats, give one of them away.  And do the same with your extra food.”  Life is not about accumulation.  Some of the people in his congregation that day were the hated tax collectors, who made their money by over-charging people and pocketing what was left over.  They too asked: “What should wedo?” And John replied: “Don’t collect any more from the people than what is required.”  There were even some despised Roman soldiers who had come to be baptized and they too asked: “What should wedo?”  And John replied: “Don’t extort money from anyone by threats or accusations. Instead, be satisfied with your wages.”
 
Now what is really striking about these answers is that even though John was preaching an apocalyptic message, proclaiming that the whole world was about to change, his call to participate in that change was incredible simple.  It was something everyone could do. To the crowds he said "Share." To the tax collectors, he said, "Be fair." And to the soldiers he said, "Don't bully."  SHARE. BE FAIR.  DON’T BULLY. 
 
Fidelity to the Gospel of this One who is coming does not have to be heroic.  The Good News of John’s message is that in all of our lives, in every moment of every day, we can participate in the Incarnation.  We can enflesh the divine.  We can prepare the way of the Lord by sharing what we have, by insisting on fairness to every person ever born, and in this mean-spirited age, refusing to ever bully anyone. 
 
God doesn’t want us to argue about Christmas.  God wants us to BE Christmas.  The Incarnation of God in Christ is replicated every time any of us does the will of God.  And that, it seems to me, is the transformational power of the Gospel.  It begins with the simple question: what should Ido? 
 
What should you do? What should I do? How will we keep Christmas all year long?  SHARE. BE FAIR.  DON’T BULLY.  And thus prepare the way of the Lord!
 

Advent I, December 2, 2018
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
                                                                        
 
Jeremiah 33:14-16
 
33:14 The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah.
 
33:15 In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land.
 
33:16 In those days Judah will be saved and Jerusalem will live in safety. And this is the name by which it will be called: "The LORD is our righteousness."
 
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My father didn’t mean to squelch hope.  In fact, he was trying to instill hope in his children, and so he would say things like: “Next year, we’re going to buy a new house and everyone will have his or her own bedroom!”  Or “Let’s all go to the movies tonight, and you can have any kind of candy you want.”  Or “On your next birthday, I am going to buy you a new bicycle.”  My dear dad meant what he said, but the limits of his Baptist preacher’s salary, with three kids to raise, meant that most of the time, despite his best intentions, he was not able to do what he had promised.  For years, every time my dad would speak magnanimously about the future, my heart would fill with expectation.  But after awhile, seeing the same pattern of disappointment repeated again and again, I eventually stopped believing the promises.  Hope deferred is hope denied, and as a teenager I became silent and cynical when he would speak, mumbling under my breath: “Promises, promises…”
 
Inadvertently, my father prepared me on for a lifetime of the disappointments that come when promises are not kept.  As adults we learn the hard way that employers and lovers and churches and governments often promise us the moon, only to keep us earthbound and disappointed by not acting on their word, by not fulfilling their promises.  
 
And so here I am, distrustful of anyone who makes big promises.  Here I am, adorned with my cynicism like a coat of armor.  I tell myself that it’s better to expect nothing than to be disappointed.  And at this time of year in particular, I give my cynical coat of armor an extra shine. I’m a bit of a Grinch.  I cringe at the forced merriment. I bristle at the crass commercialization of this most holy time of year.
 
But then last Wednesday evening, I walked into this space and for the first time ever saw those stars that Alison made suspended above our heads.  And something inside of me began to stir.  My cynicism seemed to soften a little around the edges.  And I let myself wonder if maybe, just maybe, I could afford a little hope.  Maybe I could dare to let my spirit rise to meet the Advent promises of God, despite all evidence to the contrary? 
 
Jeremiah the prophet lived through the reign of three, less-than-stellar Judean kings.  And as a prophet he railed against the political intrigues of Jerusalem. He preached against the cynical use of religion for political gain.  And all the while, he watched as these kings broke promises, made dirty political alliances, and always kept their own best interests at heart.  And because Jeremiah called them out, he was not their favorite person.  They had the power to simply dispatch him permanently.  But there would be a heavy political price to pay.  So instead, the king threw old Jeremiah into a cold, dark prison - his only crime being the courage to speak truth to power.  
 
Eventually, the corruption rotted the foundation of the government and the Judean kingdom fell, hard.  Great calamity followed.  Babylon conquered them, destroyed their cities, desecrated their holy places, and forced the best and the brightest of them into exile in Babylon.  The poor and vulnerable were simply left behind to live in the ruins of their former greatness.  Think Damascus.
 
Such an incredible devastation seemed to leave little room for hope.  But that’s always the moment that hope appears.  And the word of hope was spoken by the same prophet who warned of calamity. In the nuclear winter of their discontent, Jeremiah told the Babylonian exiles the most incredulous thing.  He said that the kingdom would be restored; that the ruined cities would be rebuilt; that the glory of the Lord would once again hover over the land.  It seemed impossible to believe amidst the rubble of their dreams, so far from home. It seemed impossible to believe living, as they did, as desperate refugees. But Jeremiah proclaimed the word of the Lord, which often sounds like a little bit of nonsense.  He said: “The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah. In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land.”  
 
That righteous branch was a baby named Jesus. But here’s the thing: Jeremiah prophesied it.  But he never saw it.  It happened, but he was already dead.  And therein lies the power and the challenge of hope.  The word of the Lord shall surely come to pass, but it may be on some distant horizon.  And there is no guarantee that our eyes will ever behold it. 
 
Another year is coming to a close.  And this year, like all the others past, has been filled with broken promises.  This year, like all the others past, is full of dust and ashes; fear and loathing.  Some of us are tired.  Others are afraid. And yet here we are, under the stars, waiting, longing, dreaming, hoping, praying for the kingdom of God to come upon this earth just as it is in heaven. 
 
And so it is, at this time of year, despite myself, that I feel the nudge of hope.  Something in me stirs as we sing and listen and recite the old, old the story about a God who never gives up on the human race; a God who came to us as one of us, born into poverty and oppression to an unwed teenage mother and a terribly confused father. 
 
Given that I’m a Grinch, I’ve often wondered why hope springs eternal despite all the messes I make.  And this is the only conclusion I can draw: that hope is the gift of God.  It is the image of God shining in each of us.  
 
There are stars in the sky.  There is music in the air.  And there is that promise that simply will not let us go. So let’s begin our Advent journey.  Let’s sing the songs.  Let’s light the candles.  Let’s sit in the silence.  Let’s open ourselves to HOPE.