Scrolling (Luke 4:14-21)

The word “scroll” has a totally different connotation from what it had in Jesus’ day.  Now, in our computer savvy, technological time, even the most computer-illiterate amongst us know it as a verb, as in “to scroll” through a document on a computational device, whether hand-held or desk-bound.  We say “scroll down to the bottom of that document and you’ll find the Reference section of that paper,” or the “send” button—another thing they didn’t have in Jesus’ time was the button, whether or not we’re talking about a shiny round fastener or a bunch of pixels linked to another web page, they didn’t have them.  Sandals were about the same, though, as well as ceremonial dress . . . although we generally wear them in more casual situations, first century Palestinians wouldn’t have any trouble recognizing what many of us wear around the house as a robe.

But I digress.  In first century Palestine. the word scroll was most definitely a noun,as in a long, thin sheet of animal hide that was written upon and rolled up, tube-like, for storage.  And that’s what Jesus unrolls there in the synagogue, he unrolls a scroll upon which is written the book of Isaiah.  Luke is very careful to tell us that he unrolls the scroll, and he endsthe story the same way, by Jesus rolling upthe scroll and sitting down.  And in this way, our story is wrapped symbolically in a scroll, wrapped in Scripture—for us, it’s like a picture within picture, scripture within scripture—and it’s as if Luke wants to emphasize that what Jesus says about himself in this crucial passage is scriptural . . . the scroll is opened, Jesus reads the words from Isaiah, then the scroll is closed.  And we get it, don’t we?  We don’t reallyhave to hear Jesus’ words that the scripture had been fulfilled in their hearing. The scripture is opened, Jesus describes who he is—he’s been anointed, he says—and then the scripture is closed. What is between the unrolling and the rolling, between the opening and closing, is scripture personified.

Jesus is the one whose anointing the prophet foretold, and it wasn’t just any foretelling, let me tell you . . . the passages in Isaiah from whence he quotes—he combines two—were associated with the Messiah, the very name of whom, in Hebrew, means anointed.   And so, Jesus is claiming something really huge here, he’s identifying himself with this messianic text, and he’s doing it right in the synagogue, the emerging Jewish “church” of the day.

And Luke places this revealing episode in a very strategic spot in his book.  Not only is it the first speech of Jesus’ ministry, thus setting the tone for it all, but Luke has placed it right after the wilderness episode which, through the magic of the Lectionary, we will read in just a few short weeks.  In the meantime, recall that the devil tests him with three temptations.  The first one is to turn the stones into bread so he could satisfy his ravening hunger. The second is to accept the Lordship of all the kingdoms of the earth.  And the third is to throw himself off the temple and then call on his power as the Son of God to save him.

You can see that overall, the devil tempts Jesus to use his own power, his own position as the Son of God, for his own ends, to use those powers for himself.  And it’s important because in his mission statement there is none of that to be had.  Luke, by his placement of the two passages back to back, is saying “Look!  This is what he was tempted to do, and this is what he actually will do.  He’ll bring good news to the poor, heal the sick and free the oppressed. 

And it’s worthwhile to take a look at what he hasn’tbeen anointed to do.  He hasn’t  been anointed to be a personal Lord and Savior.  Nor has he been anointed to say who can sleep with whom, or who can or cannot be ordained.  He hasn’t even been anointed to make sure we all get to heaven.  He says—here in Luke, anyway—that he’s been anointed to serve.

Now, this must have been something of a shock to the folks the in the synagogue that day, at least after they had a chance to think about it and all . . . cause what the devil had temptedhim to do was a lot closer to what they all thought the messiah was coming to do.  They were surethe Messiah was going to come and run off the Romans and maybe take care of those pesky Herods while he’s at it, and that he was going to use his God-given, anointed-one powers to do so.  But no: here Jesus was, saying he’d come to bring good news to the poor—well, that was all right, the poor needed a bit of good news, as long as it was in the form of food and clothing—but release to the captives?  Well, maybe if they’re political prisoners, not the ones caught stealing,they deserve what they get, taking our hard-earned stuff. . . and what about healing blind guys?  Doesn’t that seem a  little . . . lightweightfor the Roman-kicker-outer to worry about?  And though he ends on a high note—nobody likes seeing anybody oppressed, after all—they can’t help wondering where all the other stuff was, the stuff about bringing justice to the land and restoring David’s house.

For example, he’d left  out some of the beststuff from the two passages he’d quoted.  Isaiah says the spirit anointed him to “proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor andthe day of vengeance of our God.”  He’d left out the bit about vengeance, about getting revenge on behalf of God for all the heartache and injustice the Romans and their  collaborators had wrought.  Where was the justice in that?  Where was the tit-for-tat, where was the getting back of our—oops I mean God’s—own?  It’s like sin without the consequences, heaven without the hell, forgiveness without the judgment . . . 

Jesus—very deliberately—leaves out the vengeance of God, the very part that seems so satisfying to so many people.   If that weren’t so, why would it—vengeance, that is—be such a popular spectator sport in our society?  Revenge abounds in popular entertainment . . . Mel Gibson—when he isn’t butchering Shakespeare or the story of Christ—made a career out of it, before he made one too many insensitive remarks, that is . . . there’s an entire TV show called revenge, and in a book I’m reading, a 16^thcentury hangman is poisoned and buried alive, and swearsto wreak vengeance upon those who did it to him. And though I’m only about a third of the way through the book, I’m sure that he is going to do it, and further,and to my dismay, I am looking forwardto it.  I will cheer when the bad guys get it, just like I have cheered at countless westerns and spy thrillers and mysteries when the folks who have bedeviled our heroes are done in, preferably in some creative way.

The bad-guys-getting-it narrative crops up in our arts and literature over and over . . . sociologist and theologian Walter Wink has dubbed it the myth of redemptive violence,and he and others have shown that examples of it go back as far as recorded history, all the way back to Babylonian creation stories.  In this narrative, violence is somehow redemptive.  In the hangman novel, the hangman kills the bad guys and peace descends upon his little Bavarian village.  In westerns, the bad guys are gunned down and prosperity returns to Deadwood.  The hero hates to do it—he’s a man of peace—but it has to be done, and when it’s over, he rides off into the sunset and the town is saved.

And of course, that’s what the people in the synagogue that day are thinking a Messiah is going to do . . .  it will be the myth of redemptive violence come alive. The Messiah, God’s anointed one, will come and, though he hates to do it, he’s a man of peace—heck,  his parent is a Godof peace—it has to be done, he’ll regret it until he dies, but he has to lead a conquering army, he has to kill a lot of Roman soldiers in order to save the day.

But instead of telling them what he wants to hear, Jesus he ceremonially unrolls the scroll—thus beginningthe instance of scripture—and reads the familiar, comforting words of the Prophet.  And they’re following along in their minds, like we do when we hear a beloved song, and they anticipate what is coming next,  and when he gets to the last part, he reads “to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor” and then ceremoniously rolls the scroll back up, and it jars them awake: he stops just before he gets to “the day of vengeance of our God.”  It seems he will deliver the captives, but notslaughter the captors . . . heal the blind, but not touchthose who blinded them . . . free the oppressed, but not  massacre the oppressors, or even put ‘em in jail.  No matter what  Tim LaHaye might say, Jesus comes to short-circuit the myth of redemptive violence, not perpetuate it.  He comes to show usa different way

And in the beginning, that was what Christianity was called. . . The Way.   And calling it that emphasizes what we often forget in our modern version of Christianity, which tends to stress the where-will-we-go-when-we-die part.  It emphasizes that Christianity was meant to be a way of life,one that is to be led all through the week, not just on Sunday morning.  And though it’s not completely new with Jesus, though the prophets said it years before, in his mission statement, he shows us how to live it, he shows us what to do.  We are to bring good news to the poor,  release the captives, heal the sick, and proclaim the  day of the Lord.  And oh yes: leave the judging up to God.  Amen.

The Semaphore of Grace (John 2:1-11)

John’s gospel is sometimes called the book of signs, because one of its structuring principles is a series of seven signs, or miracles—John uses the Greek word semion,  from whence comes semaphore in English.  And what we have here is the first of those signs: which John—lest we fail to make the connection—tells us at the end of the story that “Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory, and his disciples believed in him.”  And we should note, in passing, the “his disciples believed in him” bit, because Jesus would have a lot to say about that later in John’s gospel.  As he makes clear later on, belief comes from above, from God the creator rather than anything we do or say or see . . .

But that’s the topic for a future sermon.  Our task this morning is to deconstruct—just a little, maybe—this story of water and wine, and I have to say that this is one of the more iconic stories in the New Testament, beloved by songwriters, storytellers and everyday Christians in the pews.  The song that sticks in my head was written by the late, great Johnny Cash, and it’s called “He Turned the Water into Wine”  and in it Jesus is called “Just a carpenter from Naz’reth” and that says a lot, doesn’t it?  I mean, here Jesus is, a nobody carpenter from Nazareth, and he’s doing big-time signs.  And as we’ll see in a few weeks, the hometown crowds didn’t exactly fall all over themselves believing some guy from their own region could do all those flash-bam tricks that only God—or someone who’s in good with God—could do.  Prophets in their own country and all that.

Make no mistake, it was a wonderful sign.  And it came at a critical time, too:  running out of wine at a Jewish wedding was a big no-no.  They were raucous affairs, usually lasting a number of days, and as the time passed the guest became increasingly, how shall we say it, drunk..  But in 1^st Century Palestine, running out of wine was of much greater concern than a bunch of sobered-up wedding guests.  Their society was based on honor and shame, and in such a society people accrue honor as they have a bucket.  And when they do something honorable, it accrues honor, it puts it in the bucket.  In this way, a person’s personal store of honor is built up in the eyes of their neighbors.  But by the same token, when they do something that reflects badly upon them, they put shame in the bucket, and it’s like it is “negative honor,” or maybe “anti-honor,” like it cancels out the honor already accrued.  And one thing you didn’t want to do was go below zero in the old honor bucket, because . . . well just because.

Running out of food or wine at a wedding would cause one’s honor to take a serious hit, and since honor helps determine one’s position in the community, which in turn could be a matter of life and death, this was not a trivial situation.  And so when his mom comes to him—notice that John doesn’t call her by name—when his mother comes up to him and says “They have no wine” it’s a serious matter for the hosts, whoever they are, but Jesus says something that sounds a little harsh to our ears: Woman, he says, what concern is that of you and me?  My hour has not yet come . . . and even by the standards of John’s gospel that’s a bit obtuse . . . what does his hour not yet coming have to do with running out of wine?   Unless, of course, it’s foreshadowing . . . wine is a symbol of blood, and Jesus could be saying that it’s not time for him to give up his own blood for the nourishment of the guests, aka humankind.  It’s not time for him to be the bridegroom he may be saying . . . and as a matter of fact, John the Baptist refers to him that way not too much further in this very gospel . . . he calls himself the “friend of the bridegroom, who rejoices at the bridegrooms voice.”  In this metaphor—a common one, inherited from Jewish bridal mysticism—Jesus is the bridegroom and the church is the bride.  My time has not yet come, he seems to be saying, to give my life for the people.

But Jesus’ mother just stands there and—I imagine with a heavy sigh—tells the servants to do whatever he asks.  Now, certain commentators have pointed out incongruities in this story.  First of all, why doesn’t John call her by name here . . . or anywhere else in his gospel, for that matter?  She’s always “the mother of Jesus,” even when she is at the cross of her son.  Maybe Joh hadn’t heard what her name was . . . after all, we don’t think John had access to the other three gospels, which all mention her by name, but there might be a more complex reason . . . perhaps John wants to downplay Jesus’ earthly parents . . .  that seems to have been a common thing among some early Christians, who felt that it would have been better if Jesus had just descended from Heaven un-sullied by human hands . . .

And here’s another thing that puzzles some folks: why was Mary worried about the wine, anyway?  If she was a guest, she certainly wouldn’t have been, she might not have even known, honor/shame being what it was.  Maybe she was a caterer, maybe she was in charge of making sure the wedding didn’t run out of food.   That seems unlikely, because then why would Jesus, her adult child be there, along with his cronies, the disciples?  Was it take your child-and-his-friends-to-work day?

And further, why in the world would the servants do what his mother said?  Who was she to order around the help, telling them to do whatever Jesus asks?  Some scholars have advanced a possible explanation: maybe it was a wedding in her immediate family . . . that would explain why Mary was worried about it in the first place, the shame of running out of wine would accrue to her and her household if it were to come about.  We know that Jesus had some siblings, or half-siblings if you will . . . was this the wedding of one of his brothers?  But if so, why doesn’t John just come out and say it?  Why have such an elaborate, roundabout way of telling the story?  There was this wedding, see, and Jesus’ mom was there . . . and, oh yes, so were Jesus and his disciples . . .  it seems  to some that John is being cagey, as if he doesn’t want to tell the whole story, or as if he were editing somebody else’s text to make it more palatable  . . . these scholars suggest—quietly—that  not only was it a member of Mary’s immediate family, but that it was of Jesus himself.

By the time John was written, they suggest, there was a sizable group within Christianity that saw Jesus as the sinless, blameless, spotless lamb, and as everybody knows, lambs didn’t get married, they didn’t have sexual relations.  Further, there has always been a significant faction within Christianity that viewed the act of sex as somehow sinful in itself—see all the people who think the original sin was “sex” instead of  not trusting God . . . and they abide lo, even unto this day.

And so the thought that Jesus had a spouse, and is abhorrent to many.  But others—and they aren’t just Dan Brown or Martin Scorsese, either—view the possibility as a validation of Jesus’ complete humanity. We say Jesus was both fully human and fully divine, don’t we?  Well, if so, just what does it mean to be fully human?  Wouldn’t it be a sign, a signal, a semaphore of Jesus full humanity if he were to do that most human of things and seek out the physical intimacy of another?

Well.  All of that speculation is well and good, but it doesn’t tell us what the sign—the turning of the water into wine—means.  As any linguist worth her salt will tell you—especially those versed in semiotics—if there is a sign, sometimes called a signifier, there is invariably a signified, inevitably something to which the sign points.   What could the turning of water into wine possibly mean?

Well, obviously, that Jesus is a man of power, a mage of some ability . . . that Jesus is closer to the divine than most of John’s readers, which was no doubt true . . .  and in fact, John lets us know in the last line of the story that the disciples saw and believed in him.  Leaving the problematic nature of this aside—Jesus apparently didn’t think much of belief engendered by seeing—the question still remains:  believe in him how?  Believe in him in as what?  That he was the Messiah, the one chosen by God to restore Israel’s fortunes?  That he was a prophet in the line of Elijah and Moses?

Given all of this, is there another meaning, another lesson we can draw from this episode?  I think so . . . and there’s a hint in John’s careful description of the water jars as “six stone jars for the Jewish rite of purification.”  And it strikes us that these aren’t just any old water jars . . . they’re not jars for drinking water, or cooking water, or water for the livestock.  No: these jars are part of the Jewish religious apparatus, part of the Jewish religious structure.  These  jars hold water that women bathe in to make themselves ritually clean after menstruation, water that men use for purification after touching a corpse.  It’s water that people use to restore purity in someone who has become outside the pale of Jewish society, for whatever reason, and in 1^st Century Palestine, there were a lot of reasons.

So in a symbolic sense, at least, by appropriating these jars, Jesus takes possession of a key element in the Hebrew religious apparatus: the means of making errant individuals holy.  And what does he do when he gets them?  He has them filled water, to the brim, and after they take a cup-full to the chief steward, they discover that it has been changed into wine.  But not just any wine, the good stuff, the wine that is served first when the guests are sober enough to tell the difference; and remember: the quality of wine a host served also accrued honor and shame.

So we can see that Jesus has taken the stuff of religious machinery and made it something completely different.  He has taken a symbol of the Jewish religious establishment, which could be oppressive at times, which determined who is clean and who is unclean, who is in and who is out, and transformed it into a symbol of God’s bounty.  Wine, along with bread, was a fundamental staple of the day.  Not only did it represent blood, but it represented abundance, it represented life.  Jesus has transformed ritual—performed by a select group of priests for a select group of people—into sustenance, hospitality, something available to everybody at the wedding, anybody there who could dip a cup in a jar, anybody there who had hands to lift and mouths to drink.

This nourishment is available to whomever is invited to the wedding—and notice it’s invited, not “decided to come”. . . And who is the host in our metaphor of bounty, in our semaphore of grace?  Why, it’s God . . . God determines who is invited to the wedding, who is present at the dance, not the wedding guests themselves.  It is God who is the host, who decides who is in and who is out, not anybody on earth, not the Jewish religious apparatus, and most certainly not you or me.

Do you see?  The story of the water into wine is a metaphor for Jesus’ whole ministry, a ministry of transforming dry, religious ritual and procedures into living, breathing (the wine was still alive, it wasn’t pasteurized like ours can be today) sustenance.  Jesus’ whole ministry was transforming religious practice into saving grace.   It was not time to give his own blood, so he provided it himself, in canisters that just happened to be a marker of the very religious establishment he came to transform.  He came to turn the water of the Jewish sacrificial system into the wine of God’s overflowing love.  That’s what the wine—overflowing to the brim, the good stuff served even to people who aren’t in the best of shape—that’s what the wine represents: God’s overflowing, superabundant, Amazing grace.  Grace that saved people, including people just like you and me.  Amen.

Dove Talk (Luke 3:15-22)

This morning’s lectionary begins by noting that the people were filled with expectation . . . and it’s clear what they’re expecting.  They’re expecting a Messiah, and they’re wondering if John the Baptist is it.  And in those days, that was an extremely good question.  With the Roman boot-heel planted firmly upon their throats, with the face of the desolating sacrilege—none other than the Roman emperor, according to that otherJohn, John the Revelator—with the face of the desolating sacrilege on their coins, and his banners in their Temple, the very home of God, Messianic expectations are running high.  They expected that the Messiah was going to kick out the occupiers and re-establish Israel to its rightful place.  He was going to restore the House of David which was sadly defunct, even though God had established as a surehouse.

And in these troubled times, in these unstable years, would be Messiahs are coming out of the woodwork at a fearsomerate, gathering followers, preaching the restoration of Davidic rule, the ousting of the hated colonialists, and this John looks promising.  After all, he’s saying the right sayings and doing the right . . . doings.  He’s  running around the  Jordan, baptizing whomever comes to him, and preaching exactly what they want to hear: God’s axe is at the baseof the tree, it’s poisedto chop down the unfruitful ones, poisedto purify them with fire.  Those who collaborate with the Romans, those who govern in their place—like you-know-who, name begins with an ‘H’ and ends with a “Herod”—are going to be chopped down and burned in the fire of his judgment.  And the message was playing in Peoria, let me tell you, and even unto the ends of the wilderness.  Even taxcollectors were being baptized, and everyone knowswhat they are. . .  they’re the arch-collaborators, collecting exorbitant taxes for the Romans and getting fat off the misery of their fellow Jews.

And so the people are filled with expectation—John seems like the perfect Messiah, the one come to kick a little Roman behind, and restore the house of David—after all, isn’t he one of David’s distant cousins?  So John—smelly hair shirts and all—is a perfectly plausible Messiah, certainly a better prospect than a lot of them, but even as they’re wondering, John is denying: “I baptize you with water,” he says, “but one is coming who is more powerful than I.  I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals, and he’ll baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.”  Wow.  More powerful than John?   Baptism with the Holy Spiritand fire?  Sounds Messianic to me.  A guy who could baptize with fire and command the Holy Spirit ought to be able to handle a few crummy Romans.

He’s got that ole winnowing fork in his hand, and he’s heading for that threshing room floor.  And what’s he gonna do when he gets there?  Why he’s gonna takethat winnowing fork and separate the wheat from the chaff.   And what’s he gonna do with the wheat?  Why, he’s gonna put it into hisgranary.  And what’s he gonna do with the chaff?   He’s gonna burnit with unquenchable fire. 

And though I hate to admit it—I ama man of peace, after all—though I hate to admit it, it sounds like good news to me. John’s preaching validates everything I know, everything I was taught as a Christian: God came to earth in human form to save some, to put them in that heavenly granary in the sky, and to punish others, to send them screaming into the fiery depths.  Brothers and sisters, he’s got the winnowing fork in his hand, and he sure knows how to use it . . .  he’s gonna separate the wheat from the chaff, the sheep from the goats, the good from the bad . . . and I don’t know about y’all, but I certainly know which I am, and it isn’tthe chaff.

But by the same token, I know who the chaff are, I see them every day, pass them on the roads and streets . . . the chaff is anyone who isn’t like me, who isn’t living that American dream.  The chaff are those who don’t work hard, who are living in government housing, who are getting minimum wage to bag my groceries—after all, that’s all that job is worth—and earning three bucks and change to bus my tables.  The chaff is anybody who doesn’t believe like I do politically, who doesn’t worship like I do—and Muslims and Ay-rabs are at the top of my list, let me tell you, but so are Republicans and Libertarians and members of the Green Party . . . the chaff is anyone who isn’t like me, who isn’t middle class, anybody who’s living off the government largesse instead of working for a living.  The chaff is drug dealers, pot smokers and motorcycle gang members.  It’s unwed mothers who have babiesjust to collect more welfare money, it’s a documented fact, I read it in Good Housekeeping, for Pete’s sake, I heard it on the morning news . . .

The chaff is anyone who choosesa suspectlife-style, something I don’t hold with, like those alphabet-soup GLBTQ’s—and what’s that ‘Q’ stand for, anyway?  Quiet?  I certainly don’t choose to be quiet, and no good Christian does either, it’s our God-givenright  to speak up, to tell it like it is, we got free speech in the house, brothers and sisters, and we can denounce the chaff at the top of our lungs, repent, you chaff, for the kingdom of Godis at hand. 

The chaff is anyone who doesn’t believelike me, who doesn’t worship like me—ok, we’ll let the Baptists in . . . the chaff is anyone who prefers socialism to capitalism, rule by a king over rule of the people, monarchy over democracy . . . God—coincidentally, I’m sure, just like me—helps those who help themselves, who use their God-given talents to further pull themselves up by their boot-straps—hide it under a bushel, no way!  And God—again just like me—can’t understand why anyonewouldn’t like to live ina free-market capitalist society, and God wants us to spread democracy and capitalism lo unto the ends of the earth, and you know what?  The chaff is anyone who didn’t vote like me in the last election.

Ole John’s gets it right, doesn’t he?  Jesus comes to separate the bad guys from the good guys, like a good Messiah should, and those to whom he is preaching eat it up, they just lap it up like a cat does warm milk—or in mycats’ case, anything they can get their grubby little paws on—they eat that up like good caviar, because it validates their world view, it reassures them of what they already knew:  that they are the wheat, they are God’s beloved, and everybody else . . . isn’t.  Despite all appearances—after all the Romans and their toadies like the Herods have all the money and power—against all appearances, the Jews awaiting the Messiah are the wheat, and everyone else, everyone not-them are the chaff.

And Jesus has come to finally put things aright, to finally validate what all those who are wheat know to be true: he’s gonna winnowthose Romans and Herods and welfare cheaters and Muslims and GLBTQ-ers right off of this planet, gonna send ‘em to Hell where, as everybody knows, they will burn in agony as they are consumed by the righteous fire, can I have an Amen?

And of course, that’s exactly what Jesus did,isn’t it?  He showed up and winnowed out all those chaffy types, all those who weren’t like the good Jews to whom John preached,  and sent them straight to you know where . . . well, except for those tax collectors like Zaccheus, whose house he went to for supper and, oh yes, those lepers, who good Jews couldn’t even come near, they were so unclean, whom he made clean, whom he included in the Kingdom of God, those whom the religious establishment of the day had excluded . . . and, now that you mention it, he seemed to preferoutsiders, chaff like the Samaritans—who werealiens, after all, though not illegal ones, though I bet they took good Jewish jobs . . .  And he actually applaudedfeeding lazy, no-account beggars by the side of the road, and said the Kingdom of God is like a banquet where the King, far from keeping out the chaff, far from separating them out from the insiders and the wheat, actually went out into the highways and hedges and invited them in, for Pete’s sake.  Talk about enabling lazy behavior . . . hadn’t he ever heard the old saying about teaching someone to fish?

And John was right, he was muchmore powerful than he himself who, Luke reminds us right here in this passage, was imprisoned and executed by the powers that be . . . Jesus was much more powerful than that . . .

Like a lot of what John says about Jesus, this is . . . inaccurate, to put it nicely.  John speaks of a powerful man, who will execute God’s judgment on the bad, who will send those God doesn’t like into eternal damnation . . . but what happened in reality?  Wasn’t Jesus crucified like a common criminal, wasn’t he crucified withcommon criminals, wasn’t he killed right along with the chaff?  Far from separating the wheat from the chaff, Jesus seemed to stand withthe chaff . . . 

And I think we have to realize that what John the Baptist was preaching wasn’t necessarily an accurate assessment of what Jesus was coming to do . . . and why should it be?  John was like every other Jew at the time, he was expecting a Messiah who was going to validate their world view, who was going to separate the chaff from good, Jewish wheat and let it blow right out of the country on the wind. A Messiah who was going to re-instate the house of David at the point of a spear where it would rule in power and glory for ever and ever, amen.

John was of the old school, a traditional prophet who preached punishment and judgment . . . he prepared the way, all right, he made the rough places smooth and the mountains a plain, but he had no idea who it was he was preparing the way for.  How could he? How could he know the radically inclusive ministry that was to come?  How could he understand that as Paul put it, “everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!”

 But we who live on the other side of the resurrection are most certainly not  of the old school, are we?  We have seen the life of self-sacrifice, the life of Jesus as it actually turned out, we know what the Messiah was really like, that he came to standwith the chaff, to be withthose outside society’s pale.  So why is it that modern Christianity has reduced Jesus’ message to one of winnowing, one of deciding who is in and who’s out?  We interpret all of scripture through a sacrificial lens, through a hermeneutic of who God loves and who God doesn’t.  Why do we, after seeing what Jesus was reallylike, persist in acting like he was a winnowing-fork Messiah, come to kick behind and take names?  Why do we persist in using him to justify all manner of exclusion and hate?

It’s Baptism of the Lord Sunday, and it marks the beginning of Jesus’ ministry . . . the heavens are opened, and the Spirit of God comes down upon Jesus not as a flame, not as a winnowing fork or a torch, but as a dove, a universal symbol of peace, not war, of humility, not arrogance . . . and a voice comes down from those heavens, saying “you are my son, the beloved . . . in you I am well pleased.”  And with that, Jesus’ ministry is validated, it’s endorsed.   God puts the stamp of approval on it, on all that he is, and all that he is to be, the life of inclusion, of sacrifice and love.

And the good news for us is notthat he took the winnowing fork in his hand, not that he separated the good from the bad, the “right” from the “wrong,” but that through our own baptisms, and in spite of all our own tendency for exclusion, in spite of all our own propensity to violence and war and all that jazz, he included usas well.  Hallelujah, amen.

Home By Another Way (Matthew 2:1-12)

   The story of the wise men – magi, as it is in the Greek – is so familiar that it's difficult to see it clearly, hard to see it for what it is . . . ghosts from Christmas pageants past crowd our minds . . . we tend to remember details that aren't there, and forget ones that are. Unlike in the hymn we'll sing in a little bit, nowhere does it say there were three magi, nor does it say they were kings . . . These were read back into the story by the assumption that Psalm 72 and others predicts today's story . . . and perhaps by assuming only one magi per gift of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Some folks might be stingy enough to give a new-born Messiah one gift apiece, but there's no evidence that the magi were.

   There's a whole picture in our minds of wise men standing around with shepherds, surrounded by lowly cattle and sheep, all in awe over a baby asleep in a manger filled with hay. But this picture is mostly from Luke – in Matthew, Jesus is born in a house, and there's no indication Bethlehem wasn't Joseph's home town. There's no census, no pregnant ride for Mary, no away in a manger no crib for a bed. There may be shepherds keeping watch by night --  all seated on the ground – but if so, Matthew doesn't tell us . . . his story is a straightforward tale of worship and betrayal, of outlanders who seek the truth and a king who talks a good show, but reveals his true colors in the end.

   The magi are mysterious, and stand out on Jerusalem streets, even though they’re crowded and dusty – after all, Jerusalem is a back-water, and its people are provincial – and the magi are exotic and weird, and from the East, where as everybody knows, anything can happen, and often does . . . and they’re magi, outlandishly dressed in clothing no decent, God-fearing person would wear; they’re magi, at the very least astrologers, and maybe sorcerers and magicians to boot, but at the very least astrologers, who tell the future and the present from the stars, and it was what they'd seen in one particular star that had driven them to Jerusalem, and now here they are, saying what they’re saying, asking what they’re asking on the streets and in the squares and marketplaces.

   And their words pass from man to woman,  peasant to shopkeeper, centurion to slave, and soon the whole city is talking . . .   they’re looking for the King of the Jews, But it’s not the current King Herod, it’s somebody new, a new-born King . . . They'd seen his star while in the East, and they'd come to pay him homage. And underneath all the talking and rumors and excitement runs a whispered anticipation . . . “Can this be who was foretold? Could this be the Son of Man, the Messiah whose coming was predicted by the prophets?”  As the magi pass through the streets, and around the stalls selling leather goods and chickens, and by the open courtyards of the well-to-do, a wave of excitement follows them.  Indeed, if you’re up on the Mount of Olives that day and happen to look down, you see the disturbance ripple through the city, like some creature swimming just below a pond's surface, or the remnant wake of a boat that passed hours before.

   And when one of these ripples reaches the palace, Herod becomes agitated as well, and just a bit frightened, because the wise men’s words mean trouble for him . . . he’s the latest in a line governors of Judea, given the title “king of the Jews,” and he knows that many of his subjects hate his guts. After all, he’s in league with the Romans, a traitor that does their bidding and enforces their laws, and when the Romans say jump, he says how high.  And so there’s a whole raft of his fellow Jews who can’t stand him, and he surrounds himself with toadies of his own, political flunkies and yes-men, and plenty of guards to keep the rabble at bay.

   And he’s disturbed when he hears what the wise men are saying, and so he calls his own wise men, the priests and scribes of the people, and asks them where this usurper is going to be born. And I can picture these temple functionaries – of the temple built by Herod himself – and I can almost see the wheels grinding in their heads as they figure the odds, because they’re men used to the ways of power, and they’re figuring the odds of increasing theirs under a new regime. But they tell him the truth, that the king of the Jews will be born in Bethlehem, and then quote Scripture to back it up: “But you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for out of you will come a ruler who will be the shepherd of my people Israel.” And, in the manner of rabbis, they amplify it to suit the moment, and combine the prophet Micah – the part about Bethlehem and Judah – with Second Samuel – the bit about the shepherd – to make sure Herod gets the point.  Let's see . . . a ruler who was also a shepherd – who does that remind you of?   And from Bethlehem, that ruler-shepherd’s own birthplace, no less.

   And Herod’s discomfort rises by the minute, so he sends for the magi in secret – it wouldn't do to let his flunkies know he’s scared – and orders them on to Bethlehem to find this child, to diligently search for him – and bring back word so that he, Herod, might also go and pay him homage. And are the wise men actually fooled by this?  They’re not from round here, after all, they may not know what a snake Herod really is, but whatever, they go along with his plan, because their needs coincide – after all, they had come to Jerusalem to find a new-born king.

   And as they travel, always with them is the star, and it shines coldly in the night and white hot by day, it moves with the magi toward Bethlehem, confirming what the priests and scribes and temple hangers-on had said, and the magi are filled with awe and wonder, because they've never seen a star that acted like that, and believe me, they'd seen a lot of stars in their day . . . and they rejoice as they see the star and as they get closer and closer to their king.

   And they reach the house where Jesus and Mary and Joseph are, and the star stops right over the courtyard, right over the cradle where the baby lies, wrapped in baby clothes. And it bathes them in blue-white light, and they seem frozen in time, at least that was how they remember it in later years, like a snapshot, a strobe-lit moment in God's salvation history. And then they do exactly what they’d said they would – and what Herod said he wanted to do – they kneel down and pay homage to the child king.

   One-by-one they unpack gifts, gold and frankincense and myrrh, extravagant gifts carried all the way from their homeland . . . they’re kingly gifts, rare in Palestine, and rich in symbolism . . . gold, the metal of kings, beautiful and yet infinitely workable . . . frankincense, the odor of prayer and worship, used in the sanctuary and burned at sacrifices . . . and myrrh, used in both the oil of anointing and the fluid of embalming . . . present at both the birth and death of kings.

   And they worship Jesus as Mary and Joseph look on, and when it is time to go, when they would've gone by way of Jerusalem and Herod, they’re warned in a dream, and they go home by another way.

   And Herod never does find out which child was the Christ, he never learns who his parents are, or what Joseph does for a living . . . and so with cold calculus he orders all male babies in Bethlehem slaughtered. But not before another angel appears to Joseph, warning them to flee to Egypt, lest Jesus be murdered with the rest. And so like his Hebrew forebear Moses, Jesus sojourns for a time in the land of the Pharaoh, before returning to Palestine, to a new home in Nazareth.

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   Scholars talk about the “Jewish-ness” of Matthew’s gospel . . . his use of Hebrew scripture, how he guides the reader through the prophecies so that they come to the conclusion that Jesus really is the Messiah, he whose coming was foretold.  In fact, Matthew’s community probably didn't regard themselves as a new religion, but as continuous with Judaism, sort of like Messianic Jews of today. In contrast, we point to Luke as the most universal evangelist, the one most concerned to show the gospel is for everyone. But today’s passage shows that this is not hard-and-fast. As a matter of fact, Matthew begins and ends his gospel universally – in the last verses of the last chapter, in the great commission, Jesus commands his followers “Go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost . . .”

   And here, at the very beginning of the story, gentiles are led to worship the Christ child, and not just any gentiles, either – the magi were “super-gentiles,” astrologers who gained insights and knowledge by study of the stars and their alignments. Their way of understanding the world, their world-view, seems to be totally different, at right-angles from ours . . . we get inspiration and knowledge from divine revelation, from holy scripture and, less often, directly from God. And we believe that the ultimate revelation is God’s own self, the revelation embodied in human form, the Word made flesh . . .

   But in our passage, we see these ways of knowing, these ways of being in the world,  converge, we see them point to the same thing. The stars led these ultimate gentiles, these archetypical pagans to the same place as Hebrew scripture, to the same place as the angel in Joseph’s dream – to the Christ-child on a cold winter's night.  And why not?  God created the stars, just as God created the scriptures and the angels and all other forms of revelation.

   But we often ignore this, and prefer to get all moralistic, and compare the response of the gentiles – i.e., those like us – with the hypocritic actions of the corrupt Herod. Look, they say – the gentiles responded to Christ by obeying, by following, by bringing him gifts, but the Jewish establishment – his own people – secretly plotted to kill him.

   And while we shouldn’t minimize the magi’s actions, we can’t degenerate into anti-Semitic self-righteousness, either . . . we're much closer to our Jewish brothers and sisters than we are to the gentile magi.  Our mode of revelation, our faith, if you will, is much more like that of the chief priests and rabbis than it is to the star-gazing wise men. And although the magi’s response of adoration and giving is important, the point is that it is a response, and one to God’s initiative. It’s a response to God’s grace . . . there's no works righteousness here.  God came to the magi first, before their own action, and came to them where they were at, in the stars that they understood so well.

   And that sort of sums up the Gospel itself, doesn’t it?  It wraps it up in a neat Christmas package and ties a bow around it.  It's the Good News in a nutshell . . . we don’t have to go to God, do we? God comes to us, and comes in ways we understand, in stars we know . . . in fact, the Word was one of us, it became one of us, it came down as flesh and dwelt among us, and we celebrate it at this season.

   God comes to us unexpectedly, unlooked for, a bright-cold fire in a winter’s night, and we are transformed in ways we only begin to understand.  Like the magi, like those old tea-leaf reading, star-watching wise men, we confront an ultimate truth, and we're suddenly on a different journey. And like them, on that journey, we're led home by another way.  Amen.