Falling and Rising

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Luke 2:21-40

December 30, 2012 • Portage First UMC

Another year is almost gone, and it’s been a busy one, and in some respects a tumultuous one. Just a quick perusal of the various “best of 2012” lists shows a lot of change, a lot of unrest. One 2012 story especially close to my heart was the first democratically elected president for the nation of Egypt, and one could of course argue as to whether democracy really worked there or not, but nevertheless it was a huge change for a country that is faced with huge problems. We also elected a president in this country, and engaged in what was, to my recollection, one of the most contentious campaign seasons in quite a while. Of course, the world came together for the summer Olympics in London, as we watched amazing feats of athletic ability, and the country came together to mourn the shooting deaths of children in Newtown, Connecticut even as we wondered whether or not we would find ourselves plunged over the fiscal cliff. Violence again erupted in Israel between the various factions there, and Hurricane or Superstorm Sandy hit the east coast, devastating many lives there. It’s interesting how such lists are compiled these days; I found many lists that decided the most popular stories of 2012 based on what people searched for most often. One of the most amusing facts was that Bing (Microsoft’s search engine) admitted that the number one searched-for term on their site was iPhone 5 (an Apple product).

There are also, at this time of year, several lists of so-called “notable” folks who have passed away in the last year—people like George McGovern, Andy Griffith, Whitney Houston, Neil Armstrong, and, in the Christian world, one of our best thinkers, Chuck Colson. Of course, in our own lives, in our own church, we remember the dearly loved lives of many of our members, folks who are very “notable” to us. 2012 has been a difficult year, and that’s not even including the prediction that the world was going to end right before Christmas! And while the world is busy reflecting on news and people and the violence in our world, we want to take this time at the end of year to briefly look back, but more importantly to look ahead. This morning is our time of covenant making. In the Methodist tradition, this time of year has become the time when we renew our covenant with God and re-declare for another year our intention to follow Jesus. We proclaim our desire to be more faithful next year than we have been in the past year, and to seek to be a better light in the world in the coming 365 days.

Traditions like that are important. They ground us. They root us. They remind us who we are. That was certainly true for the family Jesus was born into, and for Jesus himself, for that matter. In the Gospel passage we read this morning, Luke very quickly tells about three traditions Jesus’ family took part in shortly after his birth, and about a prophecy that came true some thirty years later and is still coming true today.

The first tradition was circumcision, arguably the most sacred ceremony of the Jewish people (Kalas, Christmas from the Back Side, pg. 66). In traditional Jewish families, circumcision was done eight days after the baby boy was born. It was at this point that the baby formally received his name, though we know Jesus had actually been named before his birth—Luke reminds us the angel gave Mary his name before his conception (2:21; cf. 1:31). Why is this ritual important? Because circumcision, back to the time of Abraham in Genesis, had been the “mark” or the sign that the child was part of a people. Even before the child was aware of his heritage or his identity or much of anything for that matter, this child was accepted by the community, welcomed into the people of God. For Christians, the mark of the covenant, the sign that we are welcomed, is not so evident, because the mark is baptism. Paul, in his letter to the Colossians (2:11-12), brings those two (circumcision and baptism) together, and essentially says that what circumcision was to the Old Testament people of God, baptism is to the New Testament people of God. Now, this is not a sermon on baptism and I know there are differing views out in the larger church, but for us, baptism is offered to a child, even an infant, because that’s when circumcision was offered. Neither sign meant a person was “saved.” It meant and means they are welcomed. Baptism and circumcision are not keys to an automatic salvation. They are conditional, always, on our acceptance of God’s welcome of us. Neither are any good if we choose to reject God’s welcome (Green, Baptism, pgs. 23-26). So the first tradition Mary and Joseph hold up is the sign of welcome.

Thirty-two days after the circumcision come two other rituals which Luke describes (cf. Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pg. 51). One is the purification of the mother. The book of Leviticus, in the Old Testament, prescribed an offering to be made for the cleansing of the mother after childbirth so that she could once again be considered “clean” for worship. It was a way of welcoming the mother back into the community after she had been, in some sense, cut off for a time (Kalas 66). The mother was to offer a lamb, but if the family was too poor to afford a lamb, they could offer two doves or two young pigeons (Liefeld, “Luke,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 8, pg. 848). Luke tells us it is the latter, two birds, that Joseph and Mary bring for this offering, which tells us pretty quickly that Jesus was born into a very poor family. Now, that’s understandable when we remember Joseph’s occupation as a tekton, a humble woodworker or possibly a stonemason (Hamilton, The Journey, pg. 42). Most likely, he picked up work where he could and may have lived in Bethlehem because of the work provided by all of Herod’s building projects in Jerusalem. Mary was from Nazareth, a little bitty town that was where those who couldn’t afford to live in the nearby “big city” of Sepphoris would live. It was the “affordable housing” area; many people in Nazareth of that day lived in caves. Comfortable, but not luxurious. Mary’s family wasn’t prosperous, either. And so when Jesus came, when God became “Emmanuel” (God with us), he came into an ordinary, common family, a poor family. He didn’t come among the wealthy. He came to a family that would allow him to relate to the poor, to those most in need. This is one way Luke constantly paints the picture of Jesus: he came to the least, the last and the lost, he came to those no one else cared about, because he had been one of those. And even at the end of his life, Jesus only owned the clothes he was wearing. So when Jesus said, “Blessed are you who are poor” (Luke 6:20), the people knew he wasn’t just saying that. He knew what it was like to be one of the poor.

Then, the other ritual that takes place at the same time is the dedication of the firstborn. Luke reminds his readers that in Exodus, the people were told that every firstborn male was to be consecrated to the Lord, and had to be “bought back” with an offering. This was a reminder of their history, that in order to escape slavery in Egypt, the firstborn of every family in that nation had died except for the Hebrews. The firstborn, from that moment on, belonged to God, and so the dedication of the firstborn was a way they acknowledged that, a way they would give thanks to God for the gift of the child (Kalas 66).

So why does Luke tell us all of this? What does it matter to us? Well, two reasons, I believe. First of all, he wants us to understand that Jesus’ parents were very observant. They did what they were expected to do. They were firmly rooted in orthodox, practicing Jewish faith. Luke says they did “everything required” for their faith (2:39). They were faithful people, and that was the context Jesus was raised in. In fact, the only picture we have from his childhood is when they take him to the Temple in Jerusalem at age 12 for the celebration of Passover, another vitally important act of faith for the Jewish people. And Jesus continued to observe those traditions, those rituals, throughout his life. He attended Passover in his adult years. He himself stayed rooted in the faith. If anyone could have “gone it alone,” wouldn’t we think it would have been the Son of God? You see, we live in a world in which people increasingly like to claim they are “spiritual, but not religious.” It’s become an industry and a popular practice to beat up on the church. People will say they don’t like “organized religion.” Apparently, they prefer disorganized religion! And yes, the church has made mistakes. We don’t always get it right. Sometimes we would better off to keep quiet. Sometimes we do one thing when we should do another. And we’ve not always been as welcoming as we should be. But here’s the thing: the church, the community of faith, is what Jesus chose to carry on his mission. There is no Plan B. The Bible knows nothing of solitary faith, and neither does Jesus. Jesus chose not to go it alone. Despite the failures of so-called organized religion, then and now, Jesus still brought himself under the discipline of meeting weekly with the people of God. We’re told he went to the synagogue as was his custom (Luke 4:16; Kalas 67-68). We are imperfect. We mess up. But that doesn’t mean the church is bad through and through. Jesus chose to regularly be with the people of God, to practice the traditions of faith, and he learned that, at least in part, from Mary and Joseph, from the very beginning.

But Luke also tells us about this time because he’s aware and wants us to understand that a transition is taking place. You see, in the Old Testament, having faith meant waiting—waiting on God’s promises to come true. That’s what we’ve been experiencing throughout this Advent season—anticipating. Waiting. Listening to the prophets promise great things—and waiting some more. Faith meant waiting, and doing what God said to do until the promises came true. That’s why, in that great 11th chapter of the book of Hebrews, the author talks about the great heroes of the Old Testament and the ways they lived out their faith in this way: “These were all commended for their faith,” he writes, “yet none of them received what had been promised” (11:39). “Faith,” he says, “is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see. That is what the ancients were commended for” (11:1). And so these rituals, these traditions, were about waiting, about doing what had been commanded until the promises come true. But a change takes place in this passage. Faith, in the New Testament, is about following—following a person, Jesus. The old world was passing into a new world at that very moment (Card 51), and we see that clearly through the eyes of two old people who are in the Temple that day.

Actually, we’re not told how old Simeon is. We assume he was well advanced in years because of the promise he had received from God that he would not die until he had seen the Lord’s savior, the Messiah. Now, you talk about a God-moment. The Temple complex in this day contained about thirty-five acres (larger than Crossroads) and was usually crowded with people going to and from worship, not to mention all the noise that would have accompanied the daily activity. It was a busy place, every day! And yet, “devout and righteous” (2:25) Simeon was sensitive enough to the Spirit of God that he went when he was told, and as he enters the courts of the Temple, he sees this little family headed toward the place of sacrifice. And something in his spirit tells him, “This is the one. This is the child. This baby is the fulfillment of everything you’ve been hoping for, Simeon.”

I wonder what Mary thought as this unknown old man approaches and takes her child. Luke doesn’t say he asks. Luke just says Simeon takes the child in his arms and begins to sing. There have been several songs so far in Luke’s Gospel. Mary sings. The angels sing. Zechariah sings. And now, Simeon sings. This is the last song in Luke’s Gospel, because it’s an ending song—the end of the old era. Simeon sings that now he can die in peace. He has seen what he longed to see: God’s salvation, a salvation that will be available to all, Jew and Gentile alike (2:29-32). Hope for all, light for all, salvation for all. This is Simeon’s last song and greatest hope.

But he’s not done. After he hands the child back to Mary and Joseph, they are amazed (as so many people in Luke’s Gospel are) at what is said about their son. But Simeon has a further word, a prophecy for them. First he offers a blessing, and then, like a prophet of old, he gives them this word: “This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too” (2:34-35). This child has a purpose, but it’s not a “fields of green” sort of purpose. He will cause, Simeon says, the falling and rising of many. His life will bring people to a point of moral decision, and some will fall and some will rise. Some will reject this child, and they will be left to their own devices in life. They will continue down the path that leads to destruction (cf. Matthew 7:13). Others, however, will welcome this child into their lives. They will choose to follow him, and the word Simeon uses here describes almost a “resurrection,” a new life they will find. He will cause the falling and rising of many, including all the way down the halls of history to us. When we come to the baby in the manger, we have to make a choice. It’s not just a nice story. A new world has broken in with that birth, and this baby will cause either our falling or our rising. Perhaps that’s why Paul chose to describe Jesus as a “stumbling block” (1 Corinthians 1:23). We have to make our choice. Which way will we turn? Will we fall or rise?

But this will cost Jesus, Simeon says. Jesus will be spoken against. He will be rejected. And, as we know from reading the “rest of the story,” he will be killed. Simeon hints at that when he tells Mary, “A sword will pierce your own soul, too” (2:39). Not literally, of course, but Simeon is hinting at the pain she will feel some thirty years later as she watches her son be beaten and ultimately die on a cross. Those among us who have buried children know that deep pain, and that a sword piercing your soul is an apt description. Simeon’s word to Mary reminds her and us that our sin costs something. It costs Jesus, and it costs Mary and others. Simeon’s word is not easy, and Luke doesn’t tell us how Mary reacts except that they go home and continue to live faithfully toward the God they loved.

There is one other person Luke tells us they meet at the Temple. Her name is Anna, and she is described, interestingly, as a prophet. Luke has an affinity for widows, and he spends a lot of time telling us about Anna. She’s “very old,” she’s been a widow for a long, long time. She hangs out at the Temple all the time. Luke isn’t really clear whether she lives in one of the small rooms surrounding the Temple area or if she’s one of those persons who is just at the Temple every time the door is open (Liefeld 850). She spends her days fasting and praying, night and day she worships. Luke tells us all of that, but he doesn’t bother telling us what she said to Mary and Joseph (Card 52)! Still, what we do see in Anna is that, at the very beginning of Jesus’ story, there is a wonderful inclusiveness being portrayed. Anna is a prophet, a job in the Old Testament largely reserved for men. She’s involved in worship at the Temple, again something that was largely understood to be for men. Even today, at the Wailing Wall, the area reserved for men to pray is twice as large as the area set aside for women. My daughter couldn’t understand why there even were separate areas for prayer. Anna is another sign that the old world is ending and a wonderful, beautiful new world is breaking in. Anna and Simeon together, in this well-told story from Luke’s Gospel, indicate the transition from old to new, from faith as waiting to faith as following.

We, too, are in that transition time from old to new. In just two days, we’ll welcome 2013, a brand new year. And yes, it’s just a date on the calendar, and for some of us, it will pass with little significance. Think how many people were there in the Temple courts that day who didn’t realize what was really happening. As people of faith, we shouldn’t let these opportunities pass without spending some time in reflection. We’ve had 366 days this year. How have we used them? Are we more faithful in following Jesus today than we were a year ago? Are we, like Simeon, better at listening to God today than we were a year ago? Or, the underlying question for all of those: are you satisfied with where you are spiritually? At the risk of taking criticism for saying so, I’ll admit that I’m not. Thank God, I’m farther along in my walk with Jesus than I was a year ago, but I’m not where I want to be. I’m not as faithful in prayer or in serving as I long to be. And so, while I don’t believe in making “resolutions,” I do believe in setting goals for the coming year. I want to suggest some spiritual goals for the new year and invite you to perhaps choose one of these or another one so that, this time next year, you can look back and say, “By the grace of God, I am farther along than I was a year ago.”

So where do we start? We’ve been talking for the last year about the Christian faith being a “journey,” and we’ve even developed a series of classes that can help us either begin or continue our journey. In fact, it’s our desire that everyone who is new to Portage First start with the Journey classes. Everyone is welcome, not just newcomers. If you want to renew your faith, or if you’ve got questions about this thing called faith, I invite you set a goal of beginning the Journey, which starts with the Alpha Course. The next Alpha Course will kick off on Wednesday evening. Let’s take a moment and listen to what Alpha has meant to someone who went through it very recently.

VIDEO: “Alpha Video Montage”

So perhaps you’ll want to set that goal: to begin the Journey or Alpha or with the 6-week “Knowing God” study that begins next week. “Knowing God” is a follow-up to Alpha, but it’s also open to those who feel you’ve already got a grasp on the basics and want to move ahead. “Knowing God” focuses on learning to study the Bible and reminds us that spiritual growth doesn’t happen by accident; it happens as we set goals to read, study, pray and worship. So either of those studies, or you might want to get involved with or start your own small group. Or, perhaps a goal for you might be to be in worship more regularly, to be present every week unless you’re sick or out of town. Worship feeds our soul. Worship inspires our hearts. And worship connects us to the community. Jesus made time for worship. Simeon and Anna spent untold numbers of hours in worship. Where will worship fit in with your goal-setting for the coming year?

Or perhaps you want to set a goal of getting involved in a ministry somewhere. We’re called to service, and Anna reminds us that there is no age limit. There’s not a “retirement plan” in the kingdom of God. Anna, Luke says, was 84 years old, still serving, still praying, still finding her place at the Temple. So perhaps you’re seeking a place to serve, and your goal for the coming year might be to do what Jesus did: serve others. Now, I could stand here all day and list places where you could serve, but I’m not going to do that. I want to just mention a few places, and if none of these strike you as matching your gifts, then come talk to Pastor Deb or I. We would love to match your interests and passions with the ministries that take place here or need to take place here. But coming up this year, as I shared a few weeks ago, is a revamp of our caregiving ministries, and we hope to include many more people as we reach out to those who are hurting, those who are lonely, those in the hospitals and nursing homes. Do you feel a tug in your heart to be a part of something great like that? Perhaps God is calling you to become of our Christian caregivers.

We also, as I’ve shared on numerous occasions, have a need for folks to extend radical hospitality. Whether that’s at the coffee bar, or the Connection Center, or at the doors—we need you to be a smiling face, a warm presence, and someone who can help people find what they’re looking for. You really don’t need any pre-qualifications to welcome others. And even if you don’t take one of those spots officially, we’re all ambassadors of hospitality here in the sanctuary. I know some of you aren’t extroverted by nature; neither am I. But it doesn’t take someone with extraordinary conversational skills to reach out and say, “Hello. Welcome to our church.”

Do you like to sing? Do you play an instrument? Do you have administrative skills? What are you good at? Would you like to learn what all those buttons and knobs are back in the sound booth? Do you like to plan campfires and cookouts? Do you love spending time with youth? Here’s the point: the Christian faith is not a spectator sport. We’ve been given the greatest mission ever in the history of the world, to share the good news about Jesus and to invite people to follow him, to have faith. And to do that, it’s going to take all of us serving where we’re needed. You know what my goal is this coming year as your pastor? To move from a model where we have a few people doing most everything to where the vast majority of this congregation is engaged in mission and ministry somewhere. I long to see a whole lot of Simeons and Annas studying, worshipping and serving throughout this church and this community. Can you imagine what a difference we might make for the sake of God’s kingdom? Remember what our mission statement is? To become a community where all people encounter Jesus Christ. To help “all people” encounter Jesus, and more importantly, to bring them to the point of decision that Simeon described, to help them be one of the “rising,” is going to take all of us. Not just me. Not just Pastor Deb. Not just Wanda, Susie, Matt, Jeff, Pat, Vicki, Kate or Ed—our staff. All of us being Simeon and Anna.

So what’s your spiritual goal for the coming year? And what’s your plan for carrying that out? In 365 or so days, will you be able to sit here and say, “Yes, Lord, by your grace, I’m not done yet, but I have done what you called me to do this year and I have grown closer to you because of it”?

It was August, 1755 when John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist movement, became concerned that people were falling into a routine belief, a superficial practice of their faith. And so Wesley began to explore with the Methodist congregation in London what it would mean to practice, as he called it, “serious religion.” After talking about it for about a week, Wesley gathered the people together and read to them a covenant. The words he read were not originally his; they came from a mentor of his, Richard Alleine. Wesley prayed that the people would make a “promise unto the Lord our God and keep it,” and then invited those present, about 1800 people, to stand up and share in a covenant prayer. Reflecting on that day, Wesley wrote, “Such a night I scarce ever knew before. Surely the fruit of it shall remain for ever” (Jackson, ed., Wesley’s Works, Vol. XIII, pg. 337). Though originally the covenant prayer was used at various times, very shortly it became the tradition of the people called Methodist to use the New Year’s as a time for reminding ourselves who we are, and for making promises to God. And so, this morning, as our time of prayer, I’m going to invite you to share in renewing your covenant, your relationship with God for 2013. As the old passes into the new, let’s once again commit to being “rising” people, those who are seeking to follow Jesus faithfully. These are not “light” words we share. They are not easy words. So let’s take some time, first, to consider what it is we are promising to God as we begin this new year.

A Collision of Worlds

Luke 2:1-20

December 23/24, 2012 • Portage First UMC

He was tired. Oh, so tired. There was a reason no one made this journey frequently or even all that willingly, and he had made it too often in the last few months. Up to Nazareth, now back to Bethlehem. And this time he had been forced to come. The government. Always the government. Why do a census now? He supposed there wasn’t really any good time to do a census, but for he and his betrothed, there couldn’t have been a worse time.

Augh! There it was again—her cry of pain. Every time she cried out, it cut him like a knife. He loved her so much, and when he had found out she was pregnant, it had nearly killed him. This was not the life he had planned on. This was not the start to their marriage he had dreamed of. He had wanted to walk away from it all, until the night the angel came. “Jesus,” the angel said. “You shall call him Jesus.” It wasn’t an unusual name. There were many boys he knew named Jesus. But the angel had said this Jesus had a special calling. “He will save his people from their sins” (Matthew 1:21). Could it be? Could the time have finally arrived? All of the promises he had learned as a young boy, all of the hopes his people had for so long, all of the anticipation that was a part of their faith—could it be that now was the time? Was this boy going to be the one?

There was her cry again. They were getting closer together. He tried to remember what the family midwife had told him back in Nazareth, about how the closer the cries get, the sooner she would deliver. He’d better hurry up and find them a place to stay. His family lived just around the corner. It would be a full house because of the census, but maybe they would have room for the two of them. Oops, he meant the three of them.

Not far away, one of the young men around the fire turned his gaze toward the nearby town of Bethlehem. He and his friends weren’t really welcome there. They were country folk. Common laborers. Sheep herders. They weren’t trusted to tell the truth. In fact, the rabbis had banned them from being witnesses in any court case (Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pg. 48). Well, that was all right with him. Odd that they could be trusted to raise sheep who would be perfect enough to be used as sacrifices at the temple, but they were shut out of that worship most of the time. Still, it wasn’t a bad life. He had a home, friends, enough food to get by. And most of the time, they didn’t have to work late. But this was lambing season, and you never knew when the babies were going to be born. They took turns staying awake, living out in the fields, just in case a mother went into labor. They needed to be nearby in case she got in trouble. He turned his attention back to the fire. The others were laughing at a good joke his brother had told, that he had missed. Oh, well, he had probably heard it before anyway, so he smiled and acted as if he’d heard it.

Just a little further away, sleep eluded the most powerful man in that region. They called him “king” though he had not really earned the title. And he knew that. It gnawed at him every day. He paced the roof of the palace that night. Something was not right. Something was different in the air, though he had no idea what. Was there something he had done that was bothering him? No, probably not. Herod didn’t feel guilt, not like most people did. What he felt most often was paranoia. He knew he wasn’t really king, and he lived in constant fear that someone else was going to take his throne from him. On this dark night, he couldn’t help but remember the day he had his favorite wife executed because he was sure she was trying to take the throne from him. He had her mother killed, too. And three of his sons. They were after his power as well (Hamilton, The Journey, pg. 123). He was sure of it. And, even as he remembered the death of each of them, he didn’t feel sad or guilty. He felt somewhat satisfied. He had prevented them from overthrowing him. So what was it about tonight? What was bothering him?

The dinner conversation. Yes, that was it. He regularly used dinner as time to catch up on the gossip of the kingdom. He wanted to make sure he knew what was going on. The last thing he wanted was for some news to get back to Caesar and him not know about it. So he’d asked, as he always did, what his advisors were hearing out in the streets. Well, they said, there’s a whole lot of chatter these days about a coming Messiah. Herod wasn’t a practicing Jew (which was part of the problem), but he knew the prophecies. He knew the people expected the coming of a great king, one who comes from God and will rule over all. They expected a military power, someone who would destroy both Herod and Rome. Any idea why they are talking about it now? Herod had asked. No, his advisors said. Just seems to be something in the air. Something in the air. And it had Herod bothered. When people began anticipating something, especially something as meaningful and potentially disastrous as the coming of the Messiah, they very often could find a way to make it happen. Something was in the air, all right, and pretty soon, Herod would have to decide what to do about it. He’d have to do something. He’d have to prove he’s still in charge. He chuckled quietly to himself. I guess, he thought, sleep is not in my future tonight.

“What do you mean there’s no place to sleep?” he yelled, and then he heard Mary cry out again. “Can’t you see what shape she is in? We’ll take anything, just make sure it has a little privacy. She’s going to be having that baby any minute!” And so they let him in, gave Joseph and Mary a little bit of food while the children prepared a place for them to bed down for the night in the stable area. It was closed off, partially, from the rest of the house, but close enough that older female relatives could help, if needed, when the baby came. As Joseph guided Mary into their place of rest, he looked around. He remembered this stable. As a boy, he had played here and he had worked here. Now Mary’s son—the child the angel told him to raise, to be father to—was going to begin his life here. Mary cried out again as Joseph eased her onto the straw. “Just rest,” he told her. She gave him a look that seemed to say, “When you’re pregnant and minutes from giving birth, then you can start giving advice!” But she didn’t say the words. With family nearby, with a warm place for them to sleep, if they were able to sleep, Joseph finally relaxed, just a bit. There was nothing else for him to do but wait—wait for this baby, this miracle baby, to be born. Then the real work began. How in the world was he going to be a father to the son of God?

The fire was burning low, and many of them had already drifted off to sleep. So far, tonight, there hadn’t been any births. He continued to stoke the fire. He had said he would take the first shift because he really wasn’t all that tired. So he sat quietly, alone with his thoughts, and poked the fire with a stick. Wait—did the fire just get brighter? No, no, the light is coming from—behind him? How is that possible? Slowly, he turned around, and there stood—well, it was an angel. If you were to ask him later how he knew, he would tell you he just knew. It was an angel, no doubt about it. He looked like an angel, he glowed like an angel—he even smelled like an angel,  he smelled like holiness (cf. Michael Card). How did he know? Again, he just knew. “Fear not,” the angel said—which, if he remembered his Scriptures right, was what an angel always said. “Uh, guys,” he said, not looking away from the angel, but poking those around him. “Guys, you might want to wake up for this.” Thomas, closest to him, sort of opened one eye and grouchily said, “What is it?” Thomas was almost always grouchy, or at least that’s the way he wanted to appear. But when he saw the angel, even Thomas got quiet. One by one, the other shepherds woke up only to stare at this man who came from another place. “Fear not,” he said again, “I’m bringing you good news. Over there, in David’s town, a baby has been born. And it’s not just any ordinary baby. This baby is the Messiah, the one you have anticipated for so long.”

Messiah? In Bethlehem? Well, it sort of made sense. Bethlehem was where the greatest king in their history had come from. But, seriously, Bethlehem? Before they could ask questions, before they could wonder why this angel was bothering to tell them, the lowest of the low, the bottom rung on the social ladder, true outcasts, the sky literally exploded with angels. Oh, and the song they were singing was—well, beautiful didn’t begin to describe it. It was unbelievable. It was like—well, it was like heaven had waited for so long to sing this song, to announce this new birth, that, just like proud parents, they couldn’t sing it loud enough. (And yet, you know, the most amazing thing is, when he asked around later, no one else seemed to have heard the song. He assumed people from Ein Karem to Bethlehem to Jerusalem would have heard it, but he never found another single soul who had. Just them. Just lowly shepherds.)

Once the angel song was done, they sort of stood there staring at each other. One of the older shepherds suggested they head right away over to Bethlehem to find the baby, to see this one they had anticipated. “But what about the sheep?” he asked. “Who’ll watch the sheep?” Thomas, back to his grouchy self, snarled, “Forget the stupid sheep. This is more important than they are. Besides, they won’t go far.” He stood there for a moment, looking at the sheep, then watching his fellow shepherds head off toward the town. He looked back and forth for a few minutes. What should he do?

It was quiet now. Somehow, he made it through the birth. Mary was, quite simply, amazing, and now she was feeding this newborn child. She was exhausted, weary from the trip and even moreso from the birth, but that didn’t stop her from cuddling and cooing with this child whom she had anticipated for the last nine months. He was finally here, and when his family had asked, Joseph had done as the angel instructed. “His name is Jesus.” “Jesus?” he had overheard one of them say. “Such a common name.” Joseph smiled at the thought. Someday, they would find out this baby was anything but common. Son of Mary, Son of Joseph...Son of God. Could it be? Could this baby, nuzzled close to his beloved Mary, really be the Son of God? Could he really be the Messiah, the one who had come to save the people from their sins? Could it be?

He looks so—small. He doesn’t look like a Messiah. Joseph thought about all the rabbis he had heard teaching during his life who pictured the Messiah as someone coming on a white horse, a military man, someone to overthrow Herod and the Romans. Maybe he’d have to teach this boy how to ride a horse. Or maybe God had something different in mind. Could it be? Could this baby, this little tiny baby, be the one who would save the world? Could he really be the one they had anticipated for so long? What was God up to anyway? Well, those questions would be answered another day. Tonight, he needed sleep. He really needed sleep. Especially if he was going to raise the Son of God! As he drifted off to sleep, Joseph prayed for Mary and for the baby boy. And before he knew it, he was gently snoring there in the midst of the stable hay.

The prophet Isaiah speaks: “In the wilderness prepare the way for the Lord; make straight in the desert a highway for our God” (40:3). “Prepare for what? A collision of worlds. Like a meteor falling to the earth, heaven was bearing down on the land of his forefathers. An old promise, so old that it had become little more than a legend, was about to be fulfilled—and nothing would ever be the same. The Messiah was coming” (Ramsey, Behold the Lamb of God, Chapter 1). Tonight, we celebrate that the Messiah has come.

Small Beginnings

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Micah 5:2-4; John 10:11-18

December 23, 2012 (AM) • Portage First UMC

It’s no secret that in our world bigger is considered better. A bigger house, we’re told, will make us happier. Why buy a 32-inch television when you can buy a 70-inch? Last year’s Christmas celebration was okay, but this year we have to have something that’s bigger, flashier, more impressive. A few lights on the house last year? Upgrade this year to something brighter and more certain to win the neighborhood lights contest. Gifts are somehow more impressive if they are bigger, and if there are more than last year’s or at least more than our neighbors. Bigger is better. Bigger towns, we think, are better than smaller towns. Bigger cars are better than smaller ones. Bigger bank accounts and larger offices become a way of wielding power and influence. And bigger people even get noticed more. I don’t know if you realize this, but I’m not that big of a guy, and so I was always nearly the last one picked when we would choose teams for a game in P.E. in high school. It also doesn’t help that I have little-to-no athletic ability! But even in sports (maybe especially there, where winning is everything), bigger is better, because bigger helps you win.

And churches have gotten wrapped up in this mindset. We’ve created a consumer culture when it comes to churches, where we think if it’s bigger, it’s better. If it’s larger, it must be a sign of God’s blessing. Or, as author Skye Jethani says, it could just be clever marketing, cute giveaways and a gifted speaker. People today choose their church based less on the beliefs or theology of the church and more on what it can do for “me.” That puts the church in a difficult place in America today. I had a friend who started a church several years ago and found that it was difficult to maintain. He would bring people to Jesus, and almost immediately they would go somewhere else because the church didn’t provide what they needed. There wasn’t enough “for them.” It wasn’t “big enough.” In a culture where is bigger is better, Advent comes along and says, “Maybe bigger isn’t always better.” In fact, God often shows up in small and seemingly insignificant places.

In our Advent series this year, we’ve been discovering the unexpected and surprising ways God shows up, and in our reading this morning from Micah, the prophet continues that theme as he tells the people that God is going to come to a most insignificant place and do his greatest work there. You see, the mantra that “bigger is better” isn’t a new one. It was believed in ancient times as well. Bigger cities were given more notice. Bigger armies were the key to peace. And little, backwater towns like Nazareth, Capernaum and Bethlehem got pushed to the side. Bigger was better. And then along comes Micah, the prophet, who lived in the latter 700’s B.C., contemporary with Isaiah and Hosea. Micah lived during the time when the northern Jewish kingdom, Israel, was being destroyed and its inhabitants scattered across the known world, lost to history, and when the southern kingdom, Judah, was headed down the same road. Many of the things he preached about concerning Israel were fulfilled during his lifetime. He preaches consistently about the contrast between people who think they are in control, who think they can do whatever they want to others and get away with it, and those who are willing to trust in God as the one who is ultimately in control. Micah says that those who want power and control most often resort to violence to make it happen. That’s the way he characterizes Jerusalem. In verse 1 of this chapter, which we didn’t read, Micah calls Jerusalem the “city of troops.” City of violence. City that is supposed to be the dwelling place of God and is, instead, a place of presumed power and military might.

And then, there is an attack upon the city. In fact, Micah describes it as a particularly brutal attack. The image he uses is one of the most insulting pictures he could have produced: the enemy is seen as striking the king’s cheek with a rod, a stick. That was “the extremest of insults” and, in fact, is Micah’s way of saying that the people’s violence will not prevail. The enemies will win; they will defeat the “city of troops” (cf. McComiskey, “Micah,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 7, pg. 426). The capitol is a violent place, a place of power, a place in danger. But just six miles away, a few hours’ walk (cf. Hamilton, The Journey, pg. 96), was and is a little town that in those days, no one paid much attention to. Bethlehem was honored and remembered as the birthplace of Israel’s greatest king, David, but Jerusalem had been David’s capitol, the chosen city. Other than being David’s birthplace, Bethlehem wasn’t much in that time. It stood in the shadow of the big city. In some ways, it still does. It is a short bus ride from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, but today that trip involves crossing a border. Bethlehem is a Palestinian town, a town in dispute, and a town behind a wall. When I was in Israel in 2000, you only had to go through a checkpoint to cross from Israel to Palestine, from Jerusalem to Bethlehem. This past summer, we had to go through the checkpoint and behind a wall to be able to get to Bethlehem. And some see the wall as merely symbolic, others claim it’s for the protection of both sides, but what it’s really done is hurt and damage the economy of Bethlehem. I could see tremendous deterioration in the upkeep and the general well-being of the city from the last time I was there. Bethlehem, now as then, is a town that stands in the shadow of Jerusalem.

To that little town, Micah says this: “But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, though you are small among the clans of Judah, out of you will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel, whose origins are from of old, from ancient times” (5:2). “Ephrathah” was an ancient name for the Bethlehem that was near Jerusalem; Micah uses it here to specify which Bethlehem he’s talking about. There were more than one in his day. He means the one that used to be called Ephrathah, the one where King David was born (McComiskey 427). In Micah’s time, we really don’t know how large a town Bethlehem was, though post-exile, around 200 years later, it had a population of between 100 and 200 (cf. New Interpreter’s Dictionary, Vol. 1, pg. 443). So it was a town about the size of my hometown, and I know from growing up in Sedalia, no one knew where it was. When people would ask where I was from, I’d have to say, “About 20 miles east of Lafayette.” Lafayette they knew, but if I said, “Sedalia,” I’d get blank stares. I think it must have been the same for Bethlehem. “Bethle-where?” Micah says they are small among the clans of Judah. In fact, since David left there and set up in Jerusalem, few people have given Bethlehem a second thought. It’s a relic from the past. It’s a nice momento, but it’s not where things are happening.

Micah might agree. In his time, it’s not where things are happening. It’s not the center of attention. But Micah sees a day when Bethlehem will be on everyone’s radar. “Out of you,” he says, “will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel, whose origins are from of old, from ancient times” (5:2). Out of this small, insignificant place will come one who will do what Israel and Judah have been incapable of doing. This one, this ruler, will do God’s will and he will lead the people to do God’s will. He will do what the human kings have not done, and in fact we know he will be more than a mere human king because, as Micah says, his origins are “from of old, from ancient times” (5:2). His roots, his heritage will be in David’s family, but he will be one who comes from even before David. These words are Micah’s hint that the one who is coming will be more than David, David’s “greater son” (cf. Matthew 22:41-46). From this insignificant, ignored place will come one who will lead, protect and guide the people like a shepherd guides his sheep (5:4).

However, he will not come right away. Even though there is a crisis going on in the land in Micah’s time, the prophet doesn’t see this ruler riding in on a white horse to save the people just in the nick of time. His origins may be of old, but his coming is still in the future (cf. McComiskey 427). In fact, his coming will not avert the current crisis (Smith, NIV Application Commentary: Hosea/Amos/Micah, pg. 525). Micah tells the people they will be “abandoned,” or a better translation might be that they will be “given up” (5:3). There are consequences to their actions, and their refusal to turn back to God, despite repeated warnings, will result in Assyria coming in, destroying Jerusalem, and taking the people away from their homes. Hosea, also preaching about this time, spoke of a time when the people would not be God’s people, when God would “give them up.” And yet, for Hosea (and Micah as well), that time was temporary. It was not permanent, which is where the promise comes in. A savior is coming. One who will rescue the people is coming. “He will be our peace,” Micah says (5:5). And he will come from the most unlikely place—Bethlehem.

Early Christians, of course, understood this prophecy to refer to the birth of Jesus. Matthew, in his telling of the coming of the Wise Men, quotes Micah. The Wise Men came to Jerusalem looking for the newborn king, and King Herod’s advisors have to redirect them. They tell them the messiah was to be born in Bethlehem, just up the road. And that’s where the Wise Men find the baby Jesus, in a house in this still small, insignificant place. You’ve got to wonder if the Wise Men ever discussed the place. It wasn’t a place of power. It wasn’t a place of influence. It was a small house in a small town—not the normal place kings were born. I think that’s why God chose that place for the birth of his son, because though he is a king, he’s not a king in the way the world thinks of it. In fact, Jesus grows up and describes himself not as a king but as a shepherd. In John’s Gospel, one of the seven “I Am” statements is this: “I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me…and I lay down my life for the sheep” (10:14-15). Where have we heard that language before? In Micah, of course. And those who heard Jesus on that day would have known that imagery, too. Jesus, the good shepherd, the one who has come to shepherd his flock, the one has come to perfectly do the will of God—the one who has come to save us. And he will do that, he says, by laying down his life for those who are part of his flock. He will do that, we know, by dying in our place, taking the punishment for our sin, taking the worst the world (the “city of troops”) has to offer and redeeming it. You see, there would have been very little question among those who heard Jesus claim his place as the good shepherd as to who he claimed to be. He is from Bethlehem. He is the shepherd. He is the one who has come to save his people. From small beginnings come great things. From a small town in Judah comes the hope of the world.

Advent reminds us, then, that of a constant theme in the Scriptures: God often uses the least likely to accomplish his purposes. God called an ordinary man named Abraham to leave behind everything he knew and move to a new land—a land that wasn’t much to talk about, land that is a desert in the middle of many more powerful countries, a place that would be the center of conflict for most of history—God called Abraham to move there and to trust that God would provide him an heir, that his decedents would be as numerous as the stars. God called a stutterer named Moses to be the one who would rescue his people from slavery in Egypt. God overlooked all the handsome, strong young sons of Jesse and chose a little runt who was only good enough to tend sheep. That shepherd boy, David, he made king. And God called a “lowly” young girl from a backwater town to be the mother of his son. Mary describes herself that way, using a word that means “little” or “near the ground” (cf. Luke 1:48). God chose fishermen to be the first preachers of the Gospel. Not orators or powerful political figures. Fishermen, and they turned the world upside down. God often uses the least likely to accomplish his purposes.

Edward Kimball was a Sunday School teacher who was faithful in telling young men about Jesus. Every Sunday, he would teach and one week, a young man named Dwight gave his life to Christ because of Kimball’s witness. Dwight L. Moody went on to become a lay preacher who helped many find Christ and others gain assurance and certainty in their faith. One of those was a man by the name of J. Wilbur Chapman. Chapman became an evangelistic preacher, and he had a young assistant named Billy Sunday who later went on to preach on his own, and to organize prayer groups. In one such group, he invited the preacher Mordecai Ham to come and speak, and in 1934, as Ham preached the good news, another Billy was converted to Christ. That was Billy Graham, a man who has led literally millions to the foot of the cross. Who can say if, without the faithfulness of Edward Kimball, a person very few of us have heard of, would Billy Graham have ever come to know Jesus. Would he have ever shared the good news literally around the world? Sunday School teachers, take note: you don’t know who in your class today might grow up to touch untold numbers of people’s lives. God uses the least likely, the unnoticed, those who think they are insignificant to change the world. Bethlehem, you are small, but you will change the world. God uses the small, the seemingly insignificant—even you and me—to change the world when we follow this shepherd God has sent.

Changing the world seems like a huge calling. How do we do that? How do we live that out, especially when the problems of the world seem so overwhelming? Micah himself gives us direction in the next chapter. It’s a fairly familiar verse to many. Micah says to Judah, the secret is simply this: if you want to be faithful to God, if you want to follow the shepherd and change the world, do this. “He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God” (6:8). To act justly, to live in a way that is just or right. It’s more than simply being nice to someone else. Justice is a characteristic of God, and so doing justice means to treat others as God would treat them. Some people see that as simply “welcoming everyone,” and while everyone should be welcomed, to see people as God sees them means we recognize when there is brokenness and sin. We can’t condone things God doesn’t condone. All are welcome. Jesus died for all, to forgive the sins of all of us. And there is no place for us to judge someone else. “For all have sinned,” Romans says, “and fall short of the glory of God” (3:23). Doing justice is practicing those things that bring true healing. Jesus healed in order that the person’s sickness wouldn’t be an obstacle to their accepting his forgiveness. He also healed because, in those days, sickness was seen as evidence of sin, so healing was a clear sign that the person had been forgiven. Justice involves bringing healing—not just a cure, but healing. Today, we live out justice very often in small ways. Sixteen of you provided a Christmas box of food for a needy family in our community. It only cost you $25, the equivalent of dinner for two at Applebee’s, but for that family it made a world of difference. It told them someone loved them, and might just open them up to the possibility of God’s grace. Through this church, we’ve been feeding children on the weekends for three years now with the “Feed My Lambs” program, for the same reason. It’s a small thing that makes a world of difference. Mother Teresa put it this way: “We can do no great things, only small things with great love.” Micah says, “Act justly.”

Then he says, “Love mercy.” “Mercy” is that untranslatable Hebrew word I’ve taught you before: hesed. Most often in the Bible it’s translated as “lovingkindness,” but it’s really impossible to narrow its meaning down to just a word of two. The best translation of this word would be this: “When the one who owes you nothing gives you everything.” Well, that’s easy. We love it when people show us that kind of mercy. But do we “love mercy” enough to show it to others? Are we able to give everything to that person whom we owe nothing? What about that person who hurt you this year? Or the person who took away your livelihood, your job? What about the person who left you, who filed suit against you, who ran your name through the mud? What then? Can we “love mercy” enough to show forgiveness toward that person? Often, we deal with situations like that by simply saying, “Well, I’ll never see them again, so it’s okay. I don’t have to deal with it.” But I know, in my own soul, that though they may never ask for forgiveness, though they may never expect mercy, though they may not even deserve mercy, I need to give it. I need to be merciful, for my own spiritual health. Otherwise, that hurt, that wound, that insult will tear at my soul for years to come. Do we “love mercy” enough to show it to those who deserve it the least? Those sorts of struggles and that sort of story will probably never make the evening news. No one may ever trumpet your success in showing mercy to someone who doesn’t deserve it. No one may ever even know, including the person you’ve decided to be merciful toward. And yet, that small thing, that act of mercy, will change the world because it will shape you and me more into the image of our shepherd, the one who, as they were nailing him to the cross, said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34). Act justly. Love mercy.

And, as if the first two weren’t hard enough, walk humbly with your God. Now, we may think this one is easy compared to the other two, but let’s consider what this means in light of the season we are in. “Humbly” means “to be lowly, to be modest.” To walk humbly with God has a couple of different levels of meaning, then. For one, we recognize where we stand in relation to God. He is God, we are not, to borrow a phrase. That means he guides us, we don’t guide him. Micah was trying to tell the people that. They didn’t get to determine what was right and what was wrong; God does. They were meant to follow God’s plans, not try to force God to follow their plans. The same is true for us. Walking humbly with God means we let him lead. He is the shepherd. He knows the route. He knows the way.

But, more than that, in this season, we’re faced with a huge challenge to our faith, and that’s the way we celebrate Christmas. Consumerism is the constant challenge, and while we don’t often think of that as a spiritual problem, the fact of that matter is that when buying and buying and getting and getting becomes the driving force behind this holiday, we’ve missed the point. Bigger is not better, especially when we consider the way the guest of honor came. In a borrowed manger, a feeding trough. In a small, backwater town. In a place where Wise Men wouldn’t have thought to look on their own. There’s nothing wrong with giving gifts; that’s certainly part of the first Christmas story. But when we go deeply into debt just to have the “best Christmas ever,” does that really honor the one whose birthday this is?

When we were in Bethlehem this summer, our first stop was the Church of the Nativity. This church was built in the fourth century AD and is considered to be the oldest continuously operating Christian church in the world. It was built over the traditional site of the manger, of the cave where Jesus was born, and that’s what we went to see. But it was crowded. We had hoped to get there earlier, but a much larger tour group beat us in the building and so we stood in line for what seemed like forever. It was hot, Rachel got a bit woozy, and when we went down to the cave itself, underneath the altar, there is a silver star that marks the supposed place where Jesus was born. Lamps and decorations and all sorts of stuff clutter the interior of this cave now, presumably seeking to honor the baby of Bethlehem. And while it’s cool to touch that star, that place, I find it quite a contrast to what I picture of that first Christmas. In fact, I find it more appealing to be at Shepherd’s Field, which is still very much pastoral in nature, with a simple chapel and a cave with benches inside. I wonder if that isn’t why Phillips Brooks, on a visit to the Holy Land, took some time outside of Bethlehem, away from the clamor and the noise, to look at the city, to consider the first Christmas. Three years later, as he was reflecting on that visit, he wrote these words:

O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by

Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light

The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

Those words don’t echo the hustle and bustle of modern Bethlehem, but they reflect a quiet space, a manger, a stable, an insignificant place where one could walk humbly with God.

If we seek to honor the Christ of Christmas, perhaps the greatest celebration is the simplest. A quiet meal, family and friends together, gifts given to honor each other (not just because we feel we have to give something), and a gift given to one whose birthday it is that celebrates something close to his heart. Jesus’ concern, as is evidenced all throughout Scripture, is for the least, the last and the lost. A couple of weeks ago, I challenged you to reconsider your Christmas celebrations, and to think about giving an amount equal to what you spend on each other to our Christmas Candlelight offering. Tonight, as we begin our Candlelight services, and tomorrow as we have two more, each person who attends will be given the chance to make a difference in a small way—small ways that will add up to changing the world. Half of what you give in the Candlelight offerings will be given to provide clean water in Guatemala. It’s a project our children started with Bible School this summer, giving pennies—small things—toward filters that clean the water. One out of nine people in the world lack access to clean drinking water. 2.2 million people die of water-related diseases every year. Every 20 seconds a child dies from one of those diseases and 90% of those could be prevented if they simply had clean water—something you and I take for granted. So half of what we give tonight and tomorrow will help, in a small way, chip away at that worldwide problem. And the other half will go to feed children in our community through the “Feed My Lambs” backpack ministry. We’ve made significant strides this year, but we’re still only making a dent in the elementary schools—not to mention the middle and high schools. It’s a small beginning that makes a world of difference right here in Portage, and it’s a way we can begin, this Christmas, to walk humbly with our God. Small steps, small things done with great love. Act justly, love mercy, walk humbly with your God. As you consider your response this Christmas, listen to this.

VIDEO: You Came To Us

This Christmas, let’s not give in to the hype and the commercialism. Let’s turn Christmas upside down and honor the one who came in a humble way, who sought justice for all, and who always extended mercy. May we anticipate his coming as we follow his leading, as we live out his mission in small ways. “And he will be our peace” (5:6). Let’s pray.

Coming Home

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Zephaniah 3:14-20; Luke 3:7-18

December 16, 2012 • Portage First UMC

In August of 2010, I desperately wanted to get home. Christopher and I had been with the group who went to see the Oberammergau Passion Play, and we had spent sixteen days traveling in Italy, Austria and Germany. We had a wonderful time, but we were more than ready to come home, see our family, and sleep in our own beds. So we got up in the middle of the night on the last day to drive to Munich, full of anticipation. Our guide got us to the airport, dropped us off, wished us “auf wiedersehen,” and left. Within minutes, we found out that the plane which was to take us home had not arrived and our flight to Atlanta had been cancelled. A mixture of panic and despair settled over our very tired group as we stood in another line to try to get new flights. I’ll spare you all the details, except that getting home involved a dash the length of the Munich airport, a stop in Frankfurt (not my favorite airport), two bomb threats in the Frankfurt airport, barely making the flight to New York, and still arriving in Chicago only about five minutes later than we were originally scheduled to arrive. It was a long, harrowing, tiring day, and I’ll never forget how it felt when we turned the corner at O’Hare Airport and headed down to the baggage claim, where we saw familiar faces, glimpses of home. There was a relief, a joy, an excitement that we were finally coming home. Have you ever felt like that? Have you ever longed for home? Having moved several times in the last twenty-five years, I’ve discovered that there’s always a moment when a new place becomes “home,” when in some strange and mysterious way your heart connects with that place. For us, it’s often after a trip away and we “come home” for the first time. There’s nothing quite like the experience of coming home. It’s something we usually anticipate deeply.

“Anticipate” is our theme for these weeks of Advent. As we prepare for Christmas, for the celebration of the birth of Jesus, we’re slowing down, we’re learning the story behind the story, all of the promises of God that lead up to the birth of the baby in a manger. And so, if you’re keeping up with the readings in the devotional, you’ve read so far from Adam and Eve through Joseph and Moses and up to the choosing of David as king for Israel, and I hope you’ve enjoyed the chance in your FISH groups to talk about these stories and how they all fit together. The Bible, you’re discovering, is one complete narrative—a story that is ultimately about God and how God calls people to follow him. On Sundays, then, we’re discovering these strange folks called the prophets, people God uniquely used during the days of the kings of Israel and Judah up until about four hundred years before Jesus came. The prophets spoke words of challenge and words of comfort. Their job was to speak God’s word into their setting—into their culture, their history, their politics, their world. And yet their words have a timeless quality to them, too, as they remind us again and again that all of God’s promises will come to pass. This morning we have heard from one of those prophets, maybe one you’re not all that familiar with. His name was Zephaniah, and he offered one of the most powerful promises heard in the Scriptures: “God will bring you home.”

Zephaniah was probably a descendent of one of Judah’s kings, Hezekiah, and he preached during the reign of Josiah (who was one of the few good kings of Judah). Josiah was king when they found a copy of the book of Deuteronomy in the walls of the Temple, a book that had been lost for centuries. Picture someone coming to repair this building after it hadn’t been used for a long time and finding a Bible hidden in the walls, and no one in a long, long time had read it. It was that kind of discovery, and Josiah decided they needed to shape up and do what God had commanded the people so long ago. He was a reformer, and though his reforms didn’t last long, and seem to have come too late, it was a glimmer of hope for Judah. But it wasn’t enough. Zephaniah’s hope is for those reforms to penetrate deeper into the culture (Walker, “Zephaniah,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 7, pgs. 537-540). What Josiah did was merely superficial, as if the people just went through the motions, but didn’t let it really change their life. There are folks like that today. Maybe some of us are like that. We hear the message, show up at church, but don’t let the message really affect the way we live. For those, and for all of us, Zephaniah has a message.

The first two chapters of this book are words of judgment: “I will stretch out my hand against Judah and against all who live in Jerusalem” (1:4). Zephaniah calls the people to account because they’ve been worshipping idols and bowing down to things that aren’t God. God’s judgment is coming, Zephaniah says. Punishment is coming. Destruction is coming, and the people will be taken away from their homes. They will be exiled. It’s not a new or uncommon message among the prophets of that day. In fact, I would think it would have been hard to avoid that message wherever you went in Judah. The prophets kept assuring the people that, if they didn’t change their ways, their way of life would come to an end. It would all be over. A foreign nation would come in, just as it had with Israel in the north, and destroy them. They, too, would be exiled, taken from their homes. God says, through Zephaniah, “Of Jerusalem, I thought, ‘Surely you will fear me and accept correction!’…But they were still eager to act corruptly in all they did. Therefore…I have decided to assemble the nations and gather the kingdoms and to pour out my wrath on them…” (3:7-8). It’s not a popular message, by any means. Other prophets, like Jeremiah, were abused because they preached this message. And yet Zephaniah, like Jeremiah, could not help but proclaim the message God had given him: judgment was coming on those who refused to follow God’s leading.

But then we come to the last part of Zephaniah 3, which we read this morning. And in these verses, God gives a song to the people. Actually, it’s a song for the future (cf. Bruckner, NIV Application Commentary: Jonah, Nahum, Habakkuk, Zephaniah, pg. 330), because it’s a song to be sung by those who come home. And so the promise is that there will be an end to exile, there will be a return home, because exile is not the end. Jeremiah, which we read a couple of weeks ago, said similar things. And like Jeremiah, Zephaniah speaks more than he knows. He promises a future that is bigger and brighter than even those who heard him preach could imagine. “Sing, Daughter Zion; shout aloud, Israel! Be glad and rejoice with all your heart, Daughter Jerusalem! The Lord has taken away your punishment, he has turned back your enemy. The Lord, the King of Israel, is with you; never again will you fear any harm” (3:14-15). In these few verses, Zephaniah gives us two truths that still ring out today.

The first truth is this: no one is beyond hope. Zephaniah has just spent two and a half chapters telling Judah what they’ve done wrong, the gods they have worshipped, the ways they have offended the one true God. And yet, it is to those same people the prophet says, “God has taken away your punishment. God is still with you” (cf. 3:15). Even your disobedience, Zephaniah says, will not stop God from accomplishing his purposes, because God can still bring hope out of hopelessness and life out of destruction.

About seven centuries after Zephaniah, it was another spiritually dark time in Israel. Most of the religion that was practiced was formal, stiff, ritual-based. You did what you were expected but there was little energy or passion in the practice of faith. And then, out in the desert, appeared a preacher. The people hadn’t heard a prophet since Malachi, more than four hundred years before, but this preacher dressed and spoke a lot like they would have expected a prophet to dress and speak. His name was John, and Luke tells us he was a miracle baby. His parents were past child-bearing age when he was born. His father was a priest, and yet John joined a community that went to the desert because they rejected the way religion was run in Jerusalem. And after a time there, he started preaching in the desert—the hot, dry, desolate desert. In that place, people came to see him. They would spend hours listening to him, which, as I stood in that same desert this last summer, I find hard to imagine. But they came, even though John’s message was not a “feel good” message. It wasn’t a “power of positive thinking” message. It wasn’t a “it’s all about me” message. John gave the people a difficult word: “You brood of vipers,” he begins. You know, in none of my preaching classes was I advised to begin a sermon that way! John goes on: “Produce fruit in keeping with repentance!” Then he proceeds to tell them that just being Jewish will not save them from God’s wrath. They need to repent, to turn back to God and stop relying on their heritage. “What should we do?” the people ask. And so John gives them some instructions, and then Luke tells us that some very unlikely people were in the crowd as well: tax collectors and soldiers! Tax collectors were considered traitors to their own people because they worked for Rome. And soldiers were not only employees of Rome, they weren’t Jewish at all. They were essentially professional killers; they regularly broke the “do not kill” commandment. And yet, John doesn’t dismiss them. He doesn’t tell them there’s no hope for them. He gives them instruction as well. Tax collectors: only collect what you’re supposed to. Soldiers: don’t extort people, treat people fairly. Do you see what he’s doing? Everyone is welcome. No one is beyond hope. Can you imagine what those short statements did for the tax collectors and the soldiers, people who normally were assumed to be outside of God’s grace? No one who is willing to repent, to turn their life around, is beyond hope.

Have you ever felt beyond hope? If you have not, be thankful. It’s a difficult and hard place to be. I’ve been there. Some writers refer to it as “the dark night of the soul,” the time when we believe we’ve fallen so far even God can’t find us. The poet Christina Rossetti repeatedly suffered from many serious illnesses, including breast cancer and Graves disease, which resulted in recurring bouts of depression. Much of her struggle came out in her poetry, some of which we still sing today—for instance, one of her most well-known Christmas carols is “In the Bleak Midwinter.” The image she paints of Jesus’ nativity is not our typical Christmas card picture: “In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone…” (UMH 221). Rossetti’s world was one where hope was hard to find, and yet she clung to the Gospel story as her source of hope, because over and over again the story of the Bible is that no one is beyond hope. Even in our darkest night, we are not beyond hope. God knows, God cares, and God is coming to save us. That’s the message Zephaniah gives to the people. That’s the message that comes through the actions of John the Baptist. And that’s the message so many people need to hear this Advent season. Have you ever felt beyond hope? Do you know someone who, right now, believes they are beyond hope? This Friday evening, we will be having a service of hope for those who are struggling to find it. Friday is the first day of winter and the Longest Night, the time of year when it is the darkest, and so we take that night, symbolically, and seek to bring light and hope into the darkness that sometimes comes in our lives. If you’re struggling this Advent, I encourage you to do whatever it takes to be here Friday night. And if you’re not struggling but you know someone who is, then do whatever it takes to bring them with you on Friday night. All of us need to remember that no one is beyond hope. In fact, Zephaniah says, not only are you not beyond hope. God actually enjoys being with you. Listen again to what the prophet says: “The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing” (3:17). Can you hear God singing over you? Can you believe you are someone God would sing about? No one is beyond hope.

And that brings us to the second truth Zephaniah puts forth in this passage: God promises to bring his people home. “At that time I will gather you; at that time I will bring you home” (3:20). Certainly, those who heard this message the first time understood that to mean a return to the land of Judah, and it did mean that. There is a promise here of the end of exile, of a gathering of those who had been scattered by the enemy, and of a return to the land. And that did happen. In 538 BC, the first group of exiles were allowed to return, but that group probably included more who had been born in exile than those who had been taken away from the land originally. Children, maybe grandchildren—and yet the hope of home had been kept alive as they lived in Babylon. The land was their inheritance, their home, even if they’d never lived there. It was home.

So there is the promise of the land, but Christians also hear, within this prophecy, echoes of a deeper promise. Pastor Randy Frazee talks about it in terms of “an upper story” and “a lower story.” The “lower story” of Scripture has immediate, earth-bound implications, while the “upper story” has longer-range ideas in mind. The “upper story” is more about what God is doing behind the scenes. So when Christians listen to Zephaniah (and other prophets) talk about a return home, we think about the way Jesus talked about the promise of a home beyond this world, a mansion or dwelling place he was preparing for us (cf. John 14:1-4). Jesus promised his disciples and us that he was going away to make room for us to come live with him, and that one day, he would return and gather us to himself. You see, that’s a major difference Christians and Jews have when it comes to talking about the Savior, the Messiah. Jews were and are looking for the Messiah to come and establish justice all at once, in a single day, whereas Christians have come to understand Jesus came, gave us the job of bringing justice and reaching others for his kingdom, and one day he will return to finish it. We live in the “now and the not yet.” We have Jesus living among us, but we won’t experience all he has for us until the day when either we go home to be with him through our death or when he returns to take us there. We live in the in-between, and we anticipate his coming each and every day. He has promised to come to us—whether in the moment of our death or at the end of the age—and take us home.

C. S. Lewis wrote much in the way of theology, and a lot of that theology he then put into understandable form in his fiction works, books like The Chronicles of Narnia. The final book in that children’s series is called The Last Battle, and it pictures the final struggle between good and evil in the magical world of Narnia. The end of the story pictures the heroes who have been present through many of the books running into a place called “Aslan’s Country.” Aslan, you might remember, represents Christ in those books, and “Aslan’s Country,” is the place we were made to be forever. In fact, at the very end of The Last Battle, Lewis describes their entry into Aslan’s Country this way: “For them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.” I can’t think of a better description of the place that is our ultimate home. Lewis once said, “If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.” An old song put it this way: “This world is not my home, I’m only passin’ through. My treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue. The angels beckon me from heaven's open door and I can't feel at home in this world anymore.” To those who are faithful, God promises, “I will bring you home.”

Just a little over a week ago, I had the privilege of celebrating the life of one of our oldest members, Ed Ingram. Ed was 95 years old and married to his lovely wife, Dorothy, nearly 73 years. Dorothy passed away in July, and the last few months were very hard for Ed. But that last week, I had the privilege of being with him a couple of times, and the memory that stands out for me is the last time I saw him over at Rittenhouse. He was only awake periodically, and he would look up, but not at me or at his daughter, Betty Evensen. Ed was looking beyond us, and he was talking—to someone? I don’t know. But as I watched him, as I stood in that holy place, I became convinced Ed was seeing home. Betty said she even heard him laugh out loud a time or two in those last few days, as if he was sharing a joke with someone, but not anyone we could see. I’ve been with others who were moving from this life to the next, and the experiences are very much the same. I don’t know what we see or what we don’t see as we near death. I only know this: God has promised to bring us home. For the one who trusts in Jesus, there is a promised home, a place Jesus said he was preparing for us himself.

Getting home from our trip this past summer to Israel and Egypt wasn’t as hard as in 2010, but we did leave in the middle of the night from Cairo and fly to Frankfurt, Germany again. And I remember when we landed we just wanted some American food. Any American food. I was, as you might imagine, desperate after eighteen days for some chai tea from Starbucks, and so when we got through customs we stopped the first official-looking person we could find and asked, “Where’s Starbucks?” We diligently followed the directions, and soon enough, we were in line to get lattes. And just down a flight of stairs from there was a McDonald’s! Ah, glimpses of home! Nothing had ever tasted so good. But what if we had stayed there? What if we had decided, “Eh, that’s close enough to home. We’ve got Starbucks and McDonald’s. We don’t need anything else.” Well, we might have eaten all right, but we never would have known the full joy of coming home. And that’s the way we often treat Jesus’ promise of home. We get content. We get weighed down with stuff here. We focus only on what’s here, on our own comfort and wants, on just getting what we can for ourselves. And while I’m not saying we shouldn’t enjoy life here, I am saying we should never lose that longing God places within us for our true home. This world, as wonderful as it is, is not all there is. There is no substitute for home. And I know that because when we got home that evening, the memories of Starbucks and McDonald’s paled in comparison to the love and welcome we had when we stepped through the door into our home. As hard as it was to wait through the long hours that it took to travel home, it was worth every minute.

And so it will be for us, on that day when Jesus calls our name. If we have that kind of reaction to coming home here, how much more will our hearts rejoice when we come to our ultimate home. Advent reminds us there is more. Advent tells us there is hope for all, and Advent says there is a home promised to those who place their faith and trust in Jesus. He came to this world as a baby in a manger to make it possible for us to come and be with him for all eternity. As wonderful as the carols and the manger scenes and the movies are this time of year, the true message is that Jesus came to make a way for us to go home.

So as we anticipate the celebration of his first coming, I wonder if you are ready for the time he takes you home. Advent is about hope. Advent is about love. Advent is about joy. And Advent reminds us that we live in the now and the not yet. We live in the in-between time. And this time is given to us to ready us for “the great story.” This Advent, have you welcomed Jesus into your life? And if not, why not? What are you waiting for? Even in the midst of her darkness, Christina Rossetti knew the best gift to give for Christmas.

What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.

Amen.