Every year we hear the same story. People walking in darkness see light. A few
words about grace. Luke’s story of the birth of Jesus. And, as part of that and along
with the Psalmist, lots of singing.

And that’s appropriate, because there’s lots to sing about. But there’s a
somewhat overlooked reason why, and that’s what I want to consider with you this
night.

Luke takes great pains to place his lead characters in specific time. When John
the Baptist begins his preaching, Luke names political and religious leaders whose time
in office is well-documented. He does the same for the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem,
although we know that a couple of those weren’t in office at the same time, so Luke
obviously didn’t Google his sources.

Historical accuracy isn’t his goal anyway. When it comes to John, Luke names all
those important persons only to point out that the word of God came instead to a
relatively unknown preacher standing along the Jordan River. With the birth of Jesus, it
takes on cosmic proportions. The eternal has broken through and joined human time,
with all its limitations—and infinite possibilities.

And like the later story about John, Jesus’ birth doesn’t occur in an important
place of power and prestige. His birth comes about as close as it can get to the creation
narrative of humanity. He isn’t formed out of the dust of the earth, but he’s pretty
much laid in it as his cradle.

The same holds true for those who first hear the news of his birth. Shepherds,
usually the youngest of the family, who are not the principle heirs and therefore
somewhat disposable in case a hungry wolf comes by, suddenly hear messengers telling
them news that ought to be reserved for leaders of all types.

Since Luke’s whole Gospel is about Good News coming to outsiders, to those
deemed unworthy or unimportant, it’s no surprise that it begins this way. After all, the
eternal taking on finite characteristics is not how things usually work, even if we
remember Greek mythology that was known in that time. But this reversal has more
lasting implications for us.

Just as the eternal becoming human changes so much that we’ve been taught up
until the birth of Jesus, his life, death, and resurrection changes everything that we’ve
taught since then. This is the feast of the Incarnation, our name-day feast as Immanuel,
meaning “God with us.”

Since his birth, Jesus invites us to alter our own perceptions of time, even as our
lives become increasingly measured by fractions of minutes and seconds and we get too
busy to notice even the light around us. In the events that will lead to the ending of
Luke’s Gospel, Jesus invites us to exchange our hurried and harried time-bound lives
for the life that is eternal. And he shows us how to do that now, and not just after time
is no longer measured by our breathing.

The eternal enters human time so that humanity might share a glimpse of the
eternal in our time. You may have noticed that happening as this day moved toward
the evening, and a sense of quietness settles all around us. Yes, there may be a few
frenzied drivers still trying to get things done yesterday, and we’ll need to be aware of
their presence. But that stillness is a sign of the eternal that continues to break through
into human time as God’s gift of a breath of fresh air to nourish our souls. Those who
have experienced it first hand may tell of that moment of eternity between the
emergence of a newborn infant and its first cry of “I’m here!”

That gift of eternal time is ours to share each time we enter this place. We leave
human time at the threshold as we seek to enter the presence of the eternal. We seek
the face of the unknowable, praying for it to once again come in human flesh, only to be
surprised that the invitation means that it is enfleshed in ourselves.

That is why we celebrate this night. It’s why angels still sing, and shepherds still
wonder. It is the light in our own darkness, inviting us to sing new songs of grace and
mercy and love. It is God coming to us, inviting us to return the same Love that we find
in the lowly mangers of our own lives, and that continue to exist all around us so that
we can share it.

THE REVEREND E. WAYNE ROLLINS

Here we are, in the first full day of Winter. It will take a few weeks for us to
notice that we have a minute or two of increasing daylight, as the sun made its annual
U-turn in the wee hours of yesterday morning. We’re just a few days away from the
date that retailers have been warning us about for some two to three months, and, on
this day, we hear a couple of familiar stories.


They are stories of promise. Micah’s comforting words to those in Bethlehem are
about their dodging the bullet when Assyrian forces attacked and destroyed the
northern kingdom of Israel. The prophet’s words come some two centuries before
Nebuchadnezzar’s army attacked Judah. Micah is an erstwhile contemporary of Amos
and the first of the prophets named Isaiah.


Bethlehem is a small, insignificant area in the kingdom of Judah, now part of
what we know as the West Bank. Its name translates as “house of bread.” While its
stature is small, its promise is huge. From it will come one who will reign over Israel,
which will once again be a unified land and people after its division at the hands of
sibling rivalry after the death of Solomon.


Fast forward to Luke’s beautiful telling of those intimately involved in the year
leading up to the birth of Jesus. Luke remembers the prophecy about Bethlehem, and
weaves it into his story; he wants to show us that Jesus is the fulfillment of that long ago
promise.


Like Bethlehem, Elizabeth and Mary are fairly insignificant characters in this
story, except that something of great significance is about to occur through them.
Elizabeth is past her child-bearing years, yet she is six months pregnant. Mary, her
cousin, is a teenager, probably about thirteen years old, unwed, but expecting her own
child.


Luke makes us privy to the interaction with a heavenly being who is involved in
both women’s lives. Gabriel appears to Zechariah, Elizabeth’s husband, as he enters the
holiest part of the Temple to offer incense. Zechariah’s disbelief of the angel causes him
to become mute, which lasts until his son is born and he writes the name he is to be
called, according to the prophecy from the angel. His song burst forth when his speech
returns, and is one of Luke’s wonderful canticles we continue to sing.
Mary has her own song, which Luke models after one attributed to Hannah, the
mother of the prophet Samuel. We’ll hear and sing Mary’s song a few times today. It
gives us the gist of what this day means.


Bethlehem. Elizabeth. Mary. They’re not famous. They wouldn’t even have
“influencer” status at this point, if such a status even existed. In fact, if they tried to do
1that, they would be shut down in a moment, because their words, their purpose, is the
world’s great reversal, set in motion by nothing less than the Spirit of God, which they
might know something about, but without the doctrines developed by the later church.
And that’s the point. God chooses the least likely of persons and places to
accomplish what God sets out to do. God doesn’t go for the glitzy celebrity status icons
of the age. God doesn’t usually choose the most athletic or the wealthiest, either,
although, God being God, could do that and surprise us that way, too.


Luke’s entire Gospel is about that reversal. Mary tells us. God has filled the
hungry, exalted the meek, and thrown down the mighty from their self-important
pedestals. God is fulfilling the promise made so long ago to Abraham, but opening the
doors to millions yet to come to become children of God.


Imagine yourself being on the outside, hungry, cold, unsheltered. Then, a shaft
of light begins to spread as a door is opened. Warm air rushes into the cold. A quiet,
somewhat shy voice then says, “come in. There’s room for you here.”
Now imagine hearing your own voice saying those words to someone who
might at first disbelieve that you mean them. When you can do that, you take on angel
status, the word angel meaning “messenger.” You are God’s messenger, appearing to
someone who might be surprised to know they exist in our own time outside a
Hallmark card or movie.


When you can do that, you become like Luke, an evangelist, or teller of Good
News. Your home, your place of worship, and your heart become like a house of bread
fresh from the oven, just waiting for a nice slab of rich butter.


And when you can do that, you become like Mary and Hannah, Zechariah,
Micah, Isaiah and so many more, with a song to sing that announces once again the
greatest reversal of all time—death becomes new life. Its words invite the eternal into
human life, offering transcendent mercy and grace to all those caught in life’s winter
chill, but who yearn to sing the song of God’s eternal, life-warming love.

THE REVEREND E. WAYNE ROLLINS

The two middle Sundays in Advent focus our attention on John the Baptist, son
of Zechariah and Elizabeth, and a cousin of Jesus. He is considered the last of the type
of prophets found in Hebrew Scripture, and the forerunner of the Messiah. The Gospels
tell us that John lived and preached in the wilderness near and in the Jordan River. He
reinterprets a familiar cleansing ritual that had been in use for centuries when converts
joined Judaism. He baptizes Jesus, the meaning of which we’ll consider in a few weeks.
John’s description and his own words tell us that he does not fit the category of a
refined gentleman, and he definitely did not pass or even attend the Dale Carnegie
course in making friends and influencing people. He doesn’t have time for that. He
wears a cloak of camel’s hair, not the same as a camel hair coat, mind you. He eats what
he can find growing wild, a favorite seeming to be locusts with a wild honey sauce. Not
something you’ll find at a local drive through, although some trendy entrepreneur may
be tempted to try to do that. Coffee hour suggestion?


John makes folks curious. He’s not really an outsider. His father was a priest
serving in the Temple. But his message and demeanor arouse interest—and suspicion.
He challenges authority, and is none too subtle about it. Seeing some religious
authorities nearby, he yells out, “you brood of vipers . . .” I doubt it was warmly
received on the banks of the Jordan, although it could serve as a call to worship in
certain places in the hollows of West Virginia and eastern Kentucky.
Imagine a lone figure, unwashed, unshaved, wearing ragged clothing, standing
in Brandywine Creek calling all of Wilmington to repentance. Why, folks from as far
away as Hockessin and Chadd’s Ford might even show up to see what’s going on. I
wonder how that figure might respond to our own queries. Then, I wonder if we might
care to stop to listen to him, or just go on about our business with a “nothing to see
here" attitude.


To imagine someone like John calling out to us, we have to imagine ourselves in
a time and place where life isn’t easy, when we’re continually looking over our
shoulders to make sure someone isn’t ready to pounce on the slightest misdeed. We see
a type of that behavior when drivers slow down to the speed limit when a curve or hill
is ahead, just in case a trooper with radar is out of sight.


Another thing we’ll have to do is be aware of those aspects of our lives that call
out for repentance. John’s urgency is due to the imminent arrival of the promised
Messiah. We’ve been waiting for the return of the Messiah for quite some time, so
maybe, to continue the analogy, it’s not on our radar.


1I think that our own reality is that we’ve basically given up on the Messiah’s
return, so we look for another to fill the position. I’ve wondered about that through
several election cycles, and have heard the rhetoric about a particular candidate being
chosen by God. This falls in my “be careful what you pray for” listing, because
scripture tells us that, while there are many who are chosen by God who do good
things, God has also chosen some because, well, we need to learn a lesson. We must
remember that God chose Nebuchadnezzar, too.


But we make those bad choices when we look to only serve ourselves, only to
discover to our dismay that our prayers have been answered and the consequences of
our choice are not what we hoped for. Yet, even then, we’ll probably turn a deaf ear to
the call to repentance, instead blaming others for our own actions.


To our surprise, we might find that God turns our sin into a place to do ministry.
Look at the lasting effects of enforced poverty, of ways of life that offer a quick fix
instead of a lasting solution. Look at how we’ve established ways of living that are
based on long-held biases against those who differ from us. Look at how we force
others to live so that we might save a few dollars by paying a sub-standard wage in
order to get cheaper clothing and food. Take a hard look at how we’ve taught that it’s
okay to abuse, even hate those who question identities based on gender and sexuality,
or just happen to be born something other than white and male.


And we wonder whether John of the Brandywine might have something to call
us to repent for. Maybe when those priced out of affordable homes no longer suffer the
indignity of the removal of a bench to sit on because luxury apartments are going up
down the street, we can wonder. Maybe when those who cannot tolerate being in an
enclosed space because the last time they did, a war-time enemy attack caused that
place to explode and they barely made it out alive, we can wonder.


Maybe when a struggling young adult discovers that, even if he or she is honest
about who they are, there’s still food on the table and a warm place to sleep in the home
of those who are supposed to love them most, we can wonder whether we as a society
need to repent.


Now, you may be thinking “I didn’t do those things. Why should I repent?”
Many of those things are done by those we choose to make decisions for us, and they
are often made in the name of the same one we claim to follow in this place. If we don’t
acknowledge the need for repentance on our own part, we deny the opportunity to
grow as a community with those around us who seek the life-changing truth of the
Gospel.


Maybe, when the full reign of the promised Messiah is finally established on
earth, John can take a break. After all, when that happens, the true people of God will
live in the fullness of redemption. Maybe, when we repent of the idea that those will be
folks just like us, they’ll ask us to join them.

When I was a teenager, I watched as a new interstate highway was built through
farmland west of Charleston, West Virginia. I learned to drive on parts of that highway
as it expanded near my neighborhood into what was then the largest city in the state.
Eventually, it connected with two other interstate highways, right in the heart of the
city.


Later on, I watched as new developments grew along those highways, at least
where hills and rivers didn’t constrain them. There remained a lot of work to be done,
especially on a dreaded section of highway known as the turnpike. It was saved until
last, which, in retrospect, meant it was also the most costly, as prices didn’t go down on
labor and materials into the 1970s and early 80s.


Highways in that region were seen as openings to growth and development.
Several of them were built as part of “Appalachian corridors,” connecting cities with
remote towns and rural areas.


One such place lobbied to have the interstate highway pass them by, locating it
on the other side of a river. They’re still coming to terms with some of the
consequences of that effort, but the road is not changing its path. Other areas,
especially those in poorer sections and those neighborhoods where non-whites were
often told they had to live due to red-lining and other restrictions, saw decimating
destruction as heavy equipment razed homes and businesses to make way for highways
and ramps. Whole neighborhoods were destroyed. One such entity was an Episcopal
parish built by those of African ancestry. Its former address is now the location of a
couple of concrete columns supporting an off-ramp into downtown Charleston.
Those folks built their former structure after many years of neglect and, let’s face
it, abuse by the leadership of the large downtown parish. They were told they could
only worship at 4 PM on Sundays, and many times the priest didn’t show up because,
well, he had better things to do, in his own opinion. And on some Sundays, no one
showed up to unlock the doors so they might enter. That larger parish remains,
although it is much diminished by movement away from the effects of decisions made
by civic and religious leaders more than a half-century ago. I call it my home parish,
and was ordained there twenty years ago this week.


Much was gained by the construction of those highways, and much was lost in
the process as well. Leaders today often find themselves caught in the necessity to
emphasize the gains even as they are sometimes asked to apologize for the negative
consequences of the decisions of others, decisions made even before some of today’s
leaders were born.


1We gather in this place during Advent and hear familiar stories. We might
cringe a bit when we hear calls from those like John the Baptist, who stress
uncomfortable things like repentance and sin and our need to change. But it’s only for
an hour or so, and we can get right back to our over-scheduled lives because, you know,
people will talk if we don’t show up for every important thing happening this month.
But there’s good news. We’ll have January to collapse and rest while all the tax forms
arrive in the mail to remind us that Spring is coming!
Prepare the way of the Lord, John says. Fill the valleys, level the hills. While we
might hear that call as an urgent message to invest in a heavy equipment manufacturer,
John has other ideas. The reign of God is at hand, its presence made flesh and walking
among us even as we speak.


So how are we doing on our road construction plans? Are we even making
them? Are we looking at ways to do it that don’t require much of us, but may ask
others to do more than possible to be a part of the journey? Are we finding discounts
for ourselves at the toll booth while raising that figure for others?
The construction project for what the hymn writer called “the King’s highway”
costs the same for each of us. It’s found in repentance, that “R” word John keeps going
on about. Repentance is at the heart of the Good News John points to. Repentance is
the threshold in the doorway opened by forgiveness, even as we proclaim God’s
forgiveness of sin applies to everyone. Repentance is our activity, done in humility,
which serves as a reminder that many times in our past we were on the wrong road.
Repentance is our admission that forgiveness is necessary. When we choose to not
repent, we deny forgiveness, even if the offer still stands. We must remember the
words we pray whenever we gather together: forgive us our sins as we forgive those
who sin against us.


Too often we try to save ourselves from a humble approach, while we require
some form of humiliation for others. Even then, what might feel like humiliation may
be our denial of the need for humility, an attempt to avoid the consequences of having
to turn around and use the time and fuel to get back to the right path.
Repentance gives us the ability to join others and to invite them to join us as we
journey together on this King’s highway. The road is prepared ahead of us by the one
who bore humility and rejection to the extreme in order to show us the way.
So we must ask ourselves whether the road we travel is itself an invitation to life
as promised by the one who gave his life for us. Does the highway we propose, and are
in process of building, lead to the promised city of God? We may not know the
answers, yet. But there are signs and markers along the way that will keep us on the
right path.


We’ll take some detours along the way, perhaps take a scenic route, even if it’s
the wrong off-ramp. We might get lost and need to turn around a couple of times. But
2the way is for all who want to journey into its fulness, and an eternity of wonder and
beauty awaits at our hoped-for destination.

Happy new year! To celebrate the occasion, as we do every year, we’re
observing our regularly scheduled apocalypse!

The First Sunday of Advent always focuses on the Christ who is to come—that
phrase in our Creeds that says “he will come again to judge the living and the dead” or
something similar. If you’ve wandered into any of the nebulous territory covered by
the “Left Behind” series of books and movies, you’ll recognize the term “rapture.” If
you’ve seen the opening of a particular episode of the HBO series Six Feet Under, you’ll
remember a different interpretation on that idea. And, just for another source of
“inspiration” you can read or watch Good Omens.

What do we mean when we say we expect Christ to return? And, related to that,
since we’re some 2,000 years after that event was first mentioned, do we really believe it
will happen?

Much of what we teach about the second coming is found in one of our lessons
today, and in another writing. Paul’s first letter to the Church in Thessalonika has some
words that I heard my own grandmother say as she lay on an emergency room bed. We
were all waiting for the diagnosis that would ultimately name the disease that would
lead to her death. She raised her hand from her side, pointed up and said, “we will
meet him in the air.” That hope gave her strength to face what was to come, even as at
the age of 95 she found herself in the hospital as a patient for the first time in her life.
The other source of teaching is, of course, the Revelation to John, which is
sometimes called The Apocalypse. While it has some beautiful writing, it is also
somewhat sensational and very nearly didn’t get included in the canon of Christian
scripture. Many still try to decode its language, assuming that there are many secret
codes there besides the number “666.” Some will point out that was coded language for
the Roman emperor, most of whom had characteristics that qualified them for the
nickname “beast.”

There may be some here who think the apocalypse is much closer than it once
seemed. Some of you may know someone who has stockpiled non-perishable food and
protective items in a bunker so they’re ready for it when it comes. And, as we’ve seen
in recent history, there are yet others who seem to want to go ahead and bring it about,
so long as it’s on their own terms. The appearance of the risen Christ with an army of
angels would most likely result in varied and sudden forms of precipitation among
those folks.

In apocalyptic sections of the Gospels, Jesus tells us that these events will be a
surprise to everyone, and even he doesn’t know the day or time. He’s not really
1concerned about it, even as he faces the very real apocalyptic moment that occurred
outside Jerusalem with his death and resurrection. Those two events caused the earth
itself to tremble, according to at least one account.

Jesus isn’t concerned with calendars and clocks. He teaches us to be aware of the
reality around us, to be awake, or as some might say, “woke.” Jesus has one short
teaching to help us prepare for any event on a wide range of apocalypses: be faithful.
Since all four Gospels were written a few decades after the earthly life of Jesus of
Nazareth, they all point us to a new reality that is the great apocalyptic moment of all
time. The resurrection of Jesus is the great story that began the life of the Church; it was
the story the apostle Paul kept telling that got him arrested and ultimately beheaded.
Paul’s story is about a God who accomplished much more than any Roman emperor
could do. God transformed death itself into life that never ends. Think about that as
we consider how God might transform life while it continues.

Jesus shows us how to make that happen, if on a much smaller scale, even as we
remain faithful to the hope that we ourselves might, in Paul’s words, “attain the
resurrection from the dead.” That faithfulness is found in the little things that come our
way that are often life-changing. You know what some of them are, because you’ve
experienced them yourselves. And that faithfulness is ours to proclaim at the last
moments when we surrender those we love back to God: even at the grave, we make
our song, Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.

The apocalypse isn’t something to fear, even if the events that accompany it seem
fearful. The apocalypse, when and however it happens, is that moment when the
eternal steps back into human time, transforming us and the time into the awareness
that the one who overcame our most apocalyptic moment—death—has been here
before and is ready to lead us through and beyond it.

That’s the faith that lets us proclaim, maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.