The sounds of celebration... Luke 15: 11-32

I was a four year old runaway. My cousin Erik and I were tired of waiting on our moms after a full day of preschool - they were talking with other grown-ups or doing something else boring - so we, thinking logically, ran away. We didn’t go far really, as the crow flies, but in the eyes of a small person we went miles. We ran out of the first floor doors of the church that housed our school and dashed down the block to the corner, took a right, then dashed another block - past the front doors of the church - took another right - and more slowly this time - ran another half block to a stairwell and crouched down. We had run to the completely opposite side of the church and it was thrilling at first - the adrenaline running through our veins, the sweet taste of being bad in our mouths, visions of our new exciting lives as runaways dancing though our heads. But as we crouched in the small stairwell, the excitement began to fade. As we sat, the sky began to grow dark, and the light jackets we were wearing were not warm enough to keep the chill of the evening air off our small, huddled, now fearful bodies. We were runaways now, and we surely couldn’t return to our moms without severe punishment - so we shivered, contemplating our fates in a dirty trash-filled stairwell.

I am sure the younger son felt something like this as he sat in the pig sty, surrounded by the mud and waste and slop of the hogs. This place, this stinking, filthy, dangerous place was not where he had intended to end up. It had all seemed like just a game at first - he had never really intended to run off with his share of the inheritance. He was just curious to see what it looked like - and to count it and see what exactly his share would be when the time came. But after he saw the glint of the gold and got to thinking, he began to dream bigger and bigger dreams of all the luxuries he could possess with the chest of money to which he would one day lay claim. Eventually, like so many others, the love of money - or the lust for the potential that money provides - got the better of the younger son and he split with the cash under the cover of darkness. It was thrilling at first - the adrenaline of leaving home for places unknown, the sweet taste of the finest wine and most expensive gourmet dinners, and the visions of all the dancing girls that provided the most willing company money could buy. But soon - too soon - the money dwindled until there was nothing left and the thrill of the new and different place quickly faded. The young man had made many friends with his money, but now that it was gone, he was left all alone, eventually forced into that pig sty, staring at the rotting husks the pigs were gnawing on with a hungry and desperate eye.

It was at that moment, though - the darkest moment of shame and despair - that the son “came to himself.” It was as though up until that moment he had been in a trance: a zombie under the control of the money, or the wine, or the lust, or his pride - maybe all of it - but the sudden awareness of the darkness in which he had been living sparked a need to find a light - a way out. He came to himself and realized exactly where he was: in a muddy pit with a dead-end job, with no friends, no family, and no hope. In coming to himself, he realized that there was little of his old self left to cling to, and so he let go of it all - his pride, his fear, his broken dreams - and resolved to start over as a humble servant for the fairest boss he’d ever worked for - his father. In coming to himself, he let go of himself and returned to his father in humility.

But the father hadn’t forgotten about his youngest son. His dear, darling child had been gone so long, and every night he drifted off to sleep praying that he would be able to see his son one more time before life left his tired bones. It hurt him that he had taken so much of the family fortune - but all of that was in the distant past, and what the father wanted more than gold was to hold his son once again. One bright morning, when he was out surveying his vineyards, he happened to look down the road as had become his habit. But this time, something was different - there was a familiar shape approaching the family home and before he could think twice, the father dropped his tools and ran - faster than he had run in years - towards the figure that he could see now was his long lost son. The son stammered as his father embraced and kissed him- something about being a servant - but before he could even finish, the father shouted in a tear-strained voice - “He’s home! He’s home! Praise God in heaven - my son who I thought was dead is home! Let’s celebrate as no one has ever celebrated before!” And at once the father’s servants brought out lavish things - not the wine and women of the far away land, but the robe and ring of the family, of the home, of the connection and comfort the son had longed for for so long. They broke open the dusty chests that held the family’s musical instruments and struck up a marvelous, joyful tune right there in the dining room in the middle of the afternoon. The sounds of celebration poured out of the windows and doors of the house into the roads and fields all around.

To the tax collectors and sinners gathered around Jesus listening to this story, it must have sounded like unbelievably good news. And for us, who so often come to ourselves to find that we have wandered a long way off from God it is also good news. God is waiting, eager, expectantly watching for us to turn from ourselves to God. And when we do turn and draw near to God, before we can utter a word of confession or even form a thought of repentance, God draws us close, embraces us, and wraps us in hope and peace and love, which surround us like robes and encircle us like rings. In the kingdom of God - that always present, but not yet fully visible state of being present to the Presence of God and God’s future - there is joy overflowing when even one of God’s beloved children returns from the distant land of self-centered struggles. In the kingdom of God, there is dancing and singing and celebration that is contagious and inviting, calling out to all of creation to join in the dance and add even yet richer harmony to the song of return.

A friend of mine is the pastor of a large church in Atlanta, in a part of town that once was a white suburb, but what is now a hodgepodge of struggling folks of all races and nationalities. In fact, many members of the church were born outside of the United States and any church function is filled with the delightful cadences of every accent imaginable. This community has struggled with gang violence for many years, but through God’s grace and vigorous outreach several young men who had been involved with gangs have begun to worship with the church and have even invited others to do so as well. One young man attended for a few months and then began to bring his mother to church - a woman who worked as an exotic dancer. The first few times she came to church, she wore tight and revealing clothing. But the pastor, and others in the church, saw past the outer attire and saw her presence in worship as a move towards God and welcomed her with open arms. On Easter Sunday, she came to the church in a beautiful new dress, and the pastor greeted her warmly. The woman said: “Pastor - what do y’all do with those beautiful lilies that are all around the church? I don’t think I have ever smelled anything so beautiful.” The pastor replied: “Oh, well some folks have ordered them, but I happen to have an extra one that you can have.” The woman teared up - she very rarely had anything green and alive in her home and she had very rarely been given a gift that had no strings attached. She had found herself in a dark place in life where no one gave her anything for free, but here, in a church filled with God’s children from every nation on the Earth, she had been given a gift of beauty. She had been given hope for the future by the gift of a flowering symbol of new life and resurrection. I’m not sure if the pastor heard it - but as the woman took the lily in her hands, there was for a moment the faint but celebratory sound of music and dancing.

But unfortunately for the Kingdom of God, not everyone who hears the celebration joins in. The story of the prodigal son does not end with the celebration. Instead, there is another son, an elder son who had always done what was asked of him. He worked long and hard in the fields, content to do anything and everything his father had asked of him. That is, until he is asked to come into the house to join in the celebration over the return of his long lost brother. This he refuses to do, and sits outside of the house in barely contained rage.

But the father has not forgotten about his eldest son. He notices the absence of his beloved firstborn son and comes out to beg him to join in the celebration. But this time it is the son who interrupts the father - “You know dad, I have done nothing but work my butt off for you and I never disobeyed anything you told me - but where is the celebration for me? This son of yours has been off living it up and now he is back and your first thought is to throw a party? This is the last straw, dad. There is nothing here for me.”

Churches are filled with folks like this elder brother. We do what is asked of us, and it seems like there is very little reward in doing the work of the Kingdom. We often cannot remember, because of the passing of time, the celebration that was made over us when we first turned to God. Sometimes we sound like Martha when Jesus comes to visit - “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work?” We forget that our work is the work of love - it is hard and its fruits are often never seen. And when wayward souls come back to great fanfare, it doesn’t seem right! We have done what was asked and they have not! We had to get up early on Sunday to get to Sunday School after we were up early on Saturday to feed the homeless - when do I get to rest? When do I get to celebrate the fruits of my labor?” But this attitude forgets that the celebration over the lost is the fruit of the labor. The joy and delight and music and dancing of the Kingdom is the reward for the long hard work of faith. The eldest son couldn’t see what was really going on - the party was for the youngest son, yes, but it was also for him. When he refuses to join the party and cuts himself off from the family - he is speaking up for himself, but the self-centered, proud, and bitter part of himself. He cannot see, in that moment, that his fate is eternally linked to that of his brother. He cannot see that everything here is for him, too. It seems that these brothers are dancing a family dance - when one brother is in the center of attention, another feels the need to run away - to exclude himself from the joyful life of the family. The younger brother ran to a distant land and wound up hitting rock bottom before he came to himself and returned home. The older brother ran to the backyard - and the story ends without us knowing what becomes of him. Jesus, the Incarnate Word, had a way with words and knew how to weave a good story. I believe he left us hanging here so that we would be drawn in. We are left asking: “Wait - what happens to the older brother? Does he listen to the pleading of his father and join the celebration? Or does he refuse to listen and remain outside?” This is exactly the point, for us church people. Will we hear the kingdom sounds of music and celebratory dancing and join in, adding our bodies to the cruciform dance and our voices to the cosmic song of celebration? Or will we react to the sounds of the kingdom with bitterness, rage, or even worse - silence?

After my cousin Erik and I huddled in that stairwell for a few minutes, our mothers came rushing around the corner, worried out of their minds. We had only run a total of about 50 yards, but for that brief time, for them it was as though we had run 50 miles. They spotted us, ran towards us and grabbed us, sobbing and alternating between holding us tight and holding us out to scold us. My mom, in between her sobs, said: “Never do that again - never run away from me again!” But I have, and I probably will again. But I know my mom and my dad will not forget about me and I know they will always search after me and wait for me to return.

And our heavenly Parent has not forgotten about us, either. The grace and good news of the words of Christ are for all children, the wayward and the weary and God is waiting, eager, expectantly watching for us to draw near. Whether we are still far off or just in the backyard, God has a joyous party ready and waiting - with good food, music, and dancing. All we need to do is show up and come on in.

The one about the chickens... Luke 13: 31-35

My dad’s brother Rick has quite a sense of humor. He is a quiet man, but when he does speak, he is usually saying something pretty funny, even if a little twisted. He lives in Alabama, and isn’t able to drive, so for Christmas this last year, he mailed a present to our family here in Georgia. We opened the small package on Christmas morning and found a DVD, a documentary entitled “The Natural History of the Chicken.” Now I don’t know what your reaction might be if you got something like this as a Christmas present, but most of us said: “hunh. A movie about chickens. Well, it doesn’t sound too thrilling, but we’ll check it out.” So the next evening, as the day was winding down, we gathered around the tv to watch this movie all about The Natural History of the Chicken. I will tell you what – this was a fascinating movie, with some really wonderful stories in it – stories about a town in Ohio that had so many roosters that people couldn’t sleep from all of the crowing, stories about a woman in Maine who found a chicken frozen solid in a snowstorm that came back to life after thawing for a while on the kitchen table, stories of folks who keep chickens as pets, grooming and manicuring them like you would a French poodle. Chickens are funny animals, always moving around and pecking things, and generally when we think of regal and majestic animals, chickens are not at the top of the list.

But here in our reading, we find Jesus comparing himself, of all things, to a chicken, to a mother hen. “Jerusalem, Jerusalem” he cries, “the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing.” What is Jesus talking about? Why is it that the Messiah, the Lion of Judah, the Holy Lamb of God, here takes on a different image for his mission and ministry? What is Jesus up to when he calls himself a chicken?

All of this begins when some Pharisees, the holy rollers of the day, approach Jesus and clue him in to a threat on the horizon: “Get away from here” they say, “for Herod wants to kill you.” Now Herod was the king, of course, but this is not Herod the Great, the Herod who reigned when Christ was born. No, that Herod had passed away, and at his death the Romans, the imperial overlords who really ran the show in Judea, divided the territory of Herod the Great among his sons and other family members. The Herod in our story this morning is Herod Antipas, the tetrarch, which was a Roman title that meant “quarter king.” Herod wasn’t even allowed to be a real king, a full king, he was just a petty tetrarch – sort of like your daddy being governor and the only office you could hold was county commissioner, important, yes, but without the reach of your predecessors. So this King Herod was a petty ruler, always trying to grab and hold whatever power he could, politicking left and right and up and down to maintain his fragile grasp on his influence. He sends some messengers, some Pharisees to Jesus to tell him to scram, to try to scare Jesus out of Herod’s territory. Jesus, with his teachings about the kingdom of God and the miracles he was working was a threat to the petty king Herod, and so Herod sends some Pharisees to threaten Jesus, to tell him that Herod was out for his life.

But Jesus doesn’t skip a beat – “You go and tell that fox for me, ‘Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.” Jesus calls Herod a fox, a crafty, wily predator, an animal generally regarded as untrustworthy and fierce. And Christ faces this wily threat with a firmness, with an unwavering determination to his mission to heal and to cast out demons and to go to Jerusalem and face his destiny there. Jesus will not be distracted from his ministry, his reaching out to the last and to the least and to the lost, and maintains a position of quiet, firm strength in the face of opposition, in the face of threats and attempts to manipulate and divert him. In the face of the fox, Christ is strong and firm, and does not flee, but continues on with his mission, even though he knows it will cost him his life.

But Herod is not the only fox on the prowl. There are still wily and craft folks out there, looking to preserve their power, looking to derail the ministry of Jesus, looking to protect their own petty kingdoms of me, myself and mine. This can be a visible attempt to bend things to our own way, along the lines of sending a messenger to Jesus to tell him to get out of town, that his sort of kingdom interferes too much with the kingdoms of our own making. Or our challenges to Christ can be subtle, with an unkind word against a neighbor, or by telling stories and twisting the facts to try to twist an argument to our advantage. Our challenges to the mission of Christ might be unintentional, or emerge out of a deep hurt from some long-past injury, a hurt that causes us to lash out against our fellow human beings with surprising ferocity. We end up doing all kinds of harm because we want to control our lives and the lives of others, and whether we are always aware of it or not, our words and actions are like the actions of that wily fox, Herod, challenging the mission of Christ to gather together the children of God like a hen gathers her chicks.

But here is where we hear a word of good news: even though we might behave like a bunch of crafty foxes, on the prowl for little chicks, on the hunt for the mother hen, Jesus reminds us that God sees us as God’s beloved children, and sees us foxes as confused and frightened little chicks. When Jesus cries: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those that are sent to it. How often have I desired to gather your children together…” he is including all of the children of God, including Herod, including Pilate, including the Pharisees and the scribes and the priests in his loving concern. Even when we challenge the ministry and mission of God in Christ Jesus, even when we act like wily foxes, with our sneaky plans and crafty schemes, Christ sees us as worthy of love, worthy of being gathered into the protective care of God.

In the interesting little movie my uncle sent us, “The Natural History of the Chicken,” one story in particular stood out to me. A farmer raised chickens of all sorts of varieties, white ones and brown ones and golden ones – and every so often, usually in the spring, the hens would brood and sit on their nests and after a few weeks out would pop a new little family of baby chicks. One hen in particular, a fancy ornate kind of chicken that was different than all the rest was never able to successfully hatch any young – she was so small, and her eggs were even tinier, so they would get crushed by other chickens or roll through the nesting box and break. But the farmer was fond of this chicken, so he built her a special henhouse, with a specially designed nesting box just for her. This chicken laid eggs and sat on them and amazingly in a few weeks out popped a little brood of tiny chicks. The chicken was very pleased and the new little family emerged from the special henhouse when it was time and began to explore the world the way that chickens do.

One day, a few weeks after the chicks were born, the farmer noticed out his window that the farmyard grew quiet. All of the chickens were scurrying about to find some hiding place, and when he looked up to see what their concern was, he saw a hawk circling not too far above. Again looking at the yard, he saw something that made his stomach drop – the only little chicken family that hadn’t found shelter was the little chicken that he loved so much and her brood of tiny chicks. As he watched in horror, too far away to do anything, the hawk swooped down. The new mother hen stretched out her wings, and all of her chicks ran underneath her wings, finding shelter underneath their mother. The hawk struck, and the mother hen collapsed, her chicks underneath her. Watching all of this, the farmer ran out of his house and chased away the hawk, and ran to the side of his fallen favorite chicken. As he watched, the little chicks began to poke their heads out from under their mother’s body. They had survived the attack because of the fearlessness of their mother, because of the unflinching love of the hen.

And it is this kind of love, this kind of selfless, sacrificial love that Christ is offering to the children of God, to the brood of the mother hen. To the foxes, to the confused chicks, to all of us whether we are proud and self-centered or lost and afraid, Christ is opening his arms, welcoming us, calling us to draw close to him, to find shelter in the shadow of his wings. It may seem strange for Christ to call himself a chicken, a mother hen, but what Christ is pointing to is to his vulnerable strength, to his mission and ministry to draw all of us to God, regardless of the cost to him. Jesus offers his life that we might live, walks to the cross, faces the challenge of the foxes, and dies to save each of us, indeed the whole world.

But the story doesn’t end in that farmyard. As the farmer watched with amazement, the lifeless body of his favorite chicken began to stir. The hen, that had seemed to be dead, began to move with life, hopping up onto two feet and moving around to make sure each of the chicks was unharmed. The mother hen had only been stunned, and her act of selflessness had saved her babies. And the miracle of Jesus Christ is that he suffered for us, died for us, but was also raised for us, for the salvation of the foxes and the baby chicks, for all the children of God. He is alive, my brothers and sisters, alive and calling, and it is his desire and his delight to gather together all of God’s children, to hold us in his arms, to care for us and shelter us from the hawks and foxes of the world. Jesus is offering his life to us, and it is up to us whether we will come to him or not. Will you continue to challenge Christ, telling him to depart from you, content to rule over your own petty kingdom, or will you come to his loving arms, giving up your hold on your life and placing it in the hands of Christ, the one who has created us and the one who loves us, even at the cost of his own life.

"Keep awake therefore..."

This year, the lectionary, or set of Scripture verses that lots of denominations use to guide the flow of the Christian year, focuses heavily on Matthew for Advent. I don’t know if you have ever read all the way through Matthew – all at once like it was the script of a movie – but if you have a free afternoon, I would recommend it. (Here’s a hint: just breeze over the first chapter. Its good, but it can be yawn inducing.) The texts we hear for Advent come from close to the end of Matthew: we begin our season of preparation by hearing the words of Jesus as he prepares to face the cross. Towards the end of the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus lays down hard and heavy words about turmoil and persecution and judgment that provide a harsh counterpoint to the too-early Christmas hymns and joy and cheer that we see in the stores and on the radio. The twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew can be, frankly, fear inducing. There are no snowflakes or shepherds or angels singing; but there are floods, and the separation of sheep and goats, and wailings from the outer darkness. Yowza – what a hard way to get ready for the coming of Christ!

But really, isn’t preparing for Christ about taking a good, long look at our world, and even harder, at our own lives? The path we are called to as disciples of Christ is a hard one. And Jesus, as Truth Incarnate, was a truth-teller, and didn’t sugar coat what a life of preparation and waiting would be like. Yes, there is hope and joy and love greater and richer and deeper than we could ever imagine in this life of faith, but there is also heartache and pain and persecution – and, as a wise man once said, “anyone who says differently is selling something.” We ought to live as ones awake, with our eyes open. It is prickly, and can be harsh to our ears, but as we travel through Advent and into Christmas this year, we must be open to the honesty and truth Matthew brings us – that the world is still covered in horrifying darkness where bad things happen to good people, but that God’s power is not like the power of this world, and that God can bring life where there is death, God can bring hope where there is despair, and that God can bring light where there is overwhelming darkness. And for the coming of our surprising and unexpected God, we prepare with hope and joy and thanksgiving.

waiting for the night

I am sitting at my desk, waiting for the sun to go down. Being about 4:45 pm at the end of November in Northern Virginia, that will be in about 2 minutes.

Tonight, I am helping a group at our retreat center do some stargazing. They have worked up a cool program linking astronomy and Advent - a kind of "Study the Stars to Prepare for the Coming of Christ" kind of thing. Very wise, man.

I know Advent doesn't technically begin until Sunday, but it feels like tonight is the beginning of it for me. I'm doing Advent stuff with church people and that will start tonight - so here I am waiting for the waiting to begin. I feel like this is New Year's Eve - counting down to the beginning of the counting down.

Anyway, I am looking forward to studying the light tonight. The dim light of the winter stars - the pale light that does not allow the darkness to overcome it. It feels appropriate to sit in the dark, looking for the light, in whatever form it comes, as a way to begin my waiting and hoping for The Light.

Happy waiting y'all.