Sermon – St. Michael and All Angels
John 1:1-18
December 30, 2012

John’s gospel offers us a strange portrait of incarnation. There are no shepherds, angels, stables, or animals. It would be difficult to create a pageant from this rendition of the birth of Christ. It has been less than a week since we heard the angels singing “Glory to God in the highest heaven.” This story has captured imaginations for generations and no matter what age you are, it is easy to see all the characters taking their place in the nativity. Today we hear John’s poetic, yet mysterious take on this and we wonder if we are talking about the same thing. 

The incarnation changed everything. The gospel says that the “Word became flesh and lived among us.” Those words literally translated say, “God pitched tent” and moved among us, or as Eugene Peterson paraphrases, “The word became flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood.” (The Message, John 1:14)

It is one thing to worship a God who is far away. We make a long distance call; we cry out in the wilderness; we can’t fathom God noticing our unique situation. And today we hear of a God who moves in next door. That’s different. Suddenly, we are going over to borrow a cup of sugar, we talk outside as we water our flowers, we find ourselves eating on the patio at the same time and we greet each other casually. This is a different kind of God. This God is accessible. This God is very near and notices when we are in pain. It doesn’t take some grand intercessor to call on this God. This God is present to each of us here and now.

God didn’t stay distant from the human family, but chose to live among us. God chose to become human knowing that would mean weakness and strength, confusion and wisdom, joy and pain. We are no longer left to speculate about God. God comes to us - up close and personal. We can see, hear, and know God as never before. I was reading a description of a retreat at Ghost Ranch that said, “there is a difference between knowing about and knowing.” Before the incarnation, people knew about God, but when God came in human form, people knew God in ways that weren’t possible before.

The prologue of John that we heard this morning is a threshold poem. It offers us a glimpse of a God who brings light into darkness. This God is life. This God is hope. This God is joy. This God is love.
In the business world, there are three questions that are used to move through an issue: What? So What? Now What? Year after year we hear the birth narrative of the one who was sent to bring light to the darkness. There is a time of joy and then let down as we put away the decorations for another year. It is then that the so what and now what questions emerge. What was this about? What are the implications of a God who dwells among us? 

Wouldn’t it be great if we could turn the incarnation into a western about a town that has been dominated by the bully? Suddenly the hero rides into town and announces, “Things are gonna be different now!” Everyone cheers for the hero as a beautiful sunset announces that there will never be problems in this community again.

But that isn’t the message of the incarnation. It isn’t about one who cleans up all the messes, creates order and gets rid of everything that is less than perfect. The incarnation is about a God who steps into our own lives, just as they are. Rather than erase what is, God steps into it and breathes life and love into the places of darkness and confusion.

Kathleen Norris reflects on the scandal of the incarnation and the way it resonates with her own life: 
“When a place or time seems touched by God, it is an overshadowing, a sudden eclipsing of my own priorities and plans. But even in terrible circumstances and calamities, in matters of life and death, if I sense that I am in the shadow of God, I find light, so much light that my vision improves dramatically. I know that holiness is near.

And it is not robed in majesty. It does not assert itself with the raw power of empire…but waits in puzzlement, it hesitates. Coming from Galilee, as it were, from a place of little hope, it reveals the ordinary circumstances of my life to be full of mystery, and gospel, which means ‘good news’.” (Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith p. 31)

I love the way she describes incarnation not as raw power, but as hesitation casting light into the shadows and showing the goodness that is there. It gives us a new lens to view holiness – not separate from our lives, but in the midst of it all. This happens on the other side of the solstice as the days begin to lengthen. We see God not just in the Christmas decorations, but in the empty place that emerges when the decorations are put away for another year. We hear God not just in the hymns of birth, but also in the silence as we get into our cars to drive away. We feel God, not just in the warmth of the gathered community, but also in the cold that strikes our face as we step outside and we remember that God is there. We taste God in the bread and wine and we remember that God is in the world’s hunger calling us to share the goodness we have tasted.

God’s goodness has moved into the neighborhood, our neighborhood, and invites us outside to see the light dance among the shadows, to notice the pain of those around us, and to be Christ to one another. This story calls us into the world to bring hope into the shadows and love into the loneliness.
We open our eyes and our hearts and we see that God is here in this room in this moment. We see that God is in the world. We proclaim the powerful story of God who comes to live in our neighborhood, of God who lives in Newtown, CT, of God who lives in Syria, in Libya, in Palestine. We tell it on the mountain, over the hills, and everywhere. We shout, we whisper, we sing that Jesus Christ is born. We don’t offer the last word. We don’t proclaim the happy ending where all loose ends are tied up, but we announce that we have crossed the threshold. The journey together begins. God comes to us and together we step through the threshold into the world. Together, we step into the mess and fear and violence. With God walking beside us, we become light and hope for the world. As God’s beloved, we become love for the world. God’s love for the world is poured out through us and the healing begins. God’s son Jesus lives among us and shows us the way. God’s light shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it.

One of the most beautiful descriptions of the meaning of the incarnation comes from theologian and civil rights leader Howard Thurman. It’s called “The Work of Christmas”

When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:

To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among brothers [and sisters],
To make music in the heart.

May it be so…

A Sermon Preached by The Rev. Susan Allison-Hatch
December 25, 2012

Slowly, imperceptibly, almost without notice, a quiet descends.  Shepherds gone back to their fields, angels home to realms of glory.  Even the animals have stilled their voices.  

Dawn breaks.  Ray by ray the light begins to fill the sky.  

In the quiet of t  he early dawn, we turn our gaze to the child lying in the manger—taking flesh and shape and substance before our very eyes.

In the beginning.  In the beginning was the word and the word was with God and the word was God.

In the beginning, at the break of the day, in the silence of the early morning light, the Word takes flesh and dwells among us.  Some say “the Word takes flesh and pitches his tent among us.”  Others say, “the Word moves into the neighborhood.”  

In the beginning, at the break of the day, in the silence of the morning light, Christ moves into the nooks and crannies of our lives, bringing God’s transforming light into the dark corners and bright rooms in which we dwell. 

It takes a while to light up a house, even longer a neighborhood.  But there it is—the Word made flesh and dwelling among us.  Not standing off in judgment or observation but right there in the midst and messiness of life.  

The Word made flesh and meeting us where we live and move and have our being. 

That’s the magic of this moment.  That’s the beauty of this day.  The Word made flesh and pitching its tent among us.  

Perhaps you know the carol, “Love Came down at Christmas.”  Christina Rossetti wrote the words.  It goes like this:
Love came down at Christmas, love all lovely, love divine;
Love was born at Christmas:  star and angels gave the sign.
Love shall be our token; love be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and neighbor, love for plea and gift and sign.

In the beginning was Love, and Love was with God, and Love was God.  Love taking flesh and dwelling among us.  
Making camp in  our moments of  joy and grief.
Brushing the twigs and sticks from the  rough edges in our lives.
Pounding down stakes.   Love is here to stay.
Raising the roof making room for all.
Building a fire, inviting us close.
Settling in.

In the beginning was Love and Love was with God, and Love was God.  In the beginning was Love.

Christmas Eve 2012
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

Not long ago, I was listening to an interview with a noted physicist who has written about the universe in a way that many would call “spiritual.” He spoke of how all matter is inter-related, and his attempt to understand what seems like an intelligence woven throughout. He called himself an agnostic, but when pressed, admitted that what religions have always called “God” did have some similarity with his research. But he was quick to add “I don’t, of course, believe in a personal God.” 

That caught my attention. It is often what people mean when they say “I’m spiritual but not religious.” Believe me, I understand the rejection of a God who supposedly lives in the sky, who feels and decides and acts just like humans. I understand the rejection of a buddy Jesus who helps Tim Tebow make that touchdown pass, or more disturbingly, who decides to protect some children at Sandy Hook Elementary School and not others. However popular this idea of God may be, it’s a distortion of traditional religious theology. 

So the physicist, along with many people today, entirely rejects a personal God who is involved with specific human circumstances and responsive to them. 

And then we come here tonight. Here, we sing of a God who decides to appear on earth to save humankind from self-destruction. Here, a God takes on human flesh and lives among us. Here, on Christmas, at the very heart of the Christian faith, is a God who tenderly loves and reaches out to us in our need. 

So which is it? A life-directed force woven through all matter, or a loving and responsive God? I think it’s both, but neither in a way we could ever possibly comprehend. That’s why we use story, myth - to express a mystery, not to explain it; to point towards an experience, not to define reality. 

Maybe you know about fractals. Fractals are patterns in nature that are the same at every scale, small and large, near and far. Some ice crystals and types of ferns do this, and some kinds of broccoli. I think God is like this. God is the same whether guiding you - little old you - to an authentic decision at a difficult time, or as the force that renews a wilderness after a forest fire. God is fractal, the same both near and far, small and vast. 

The 14th century English saint Julian of Norwich had a vision about the eternal God of heaven and earth in a hazelnut, in the palm of her hand. Or as the Buddhists teach, enlightenment is realized in chopping wood, carrying water. There is no dualistic distinction between a personal and a universal God. It’s all one. 

That physicist being interviewed was right about a mysterious force that connects and guides all matter. But this divine intelligence is not vague, like a vibrating blue either, or abstract, like some mathematical equation. It is concrete, actual - here, in this room. It is in your heart. It interacts with everything else in creation. If you are in touch with it, it is in every decision you make, every prayer you utter, every time you reach out in love to another. It is everywhere. And it is always available, activating when you call upon it, healing and guiding and renewing us and the whole world. 

So while God may not be a person, God is personal. For what could be more personal than a boundless wisdom and love that rises up in some hospital room between you and a friend who is nearing death? I’ve been there, and I know. 

What could be more personal than the wind of truth and justice blowing through society, inspiring us to outlaw slavery and liberate people from their suffering? We’ve been there, and this wind still blows in this, and every, generation. 

What could be more personal than a breakthrough of clarity and strength that makes it possible for a person who has hit bottom to transcend themselves, and rise, as it were, from the dead? Perhaps you’ve been there, and are only alive today because of it. 

What does this have to do with Christmas? Well, in some people, it seems that God isn’t just personal as a helpful presence. In some, God seems especially potent, in a condensed personal form. 

This is what we claim about Christ. It is what the Hindus have always claimed about various figures they call avatars, who appear in history at times when humankind has needed a push forward. In these people, in the saints, or in our case, in the person of Jesus Christ, the divine condenses into a particularly potent and visible form, radiating itself outwards. 

This divine concentration of God in Jesus is how he could love the unloved - the woman caught in adultery, the unclean, even the one who betrayed him, Judas. This is why Jesus could heal - making a paralyzed man walk, a blind man see, and a dead girl live again. This was the source of Jesus’ authority and why, in a simple phrase, he could cut straight to the heart. It is how he rose from the dead.

Jesus is for us the human face of God. And Christmas is when we hold up this divine being on his birthday, this God condensed into flesh, and give thanks to God for manifesting on earth in him. And so, in the words of the old carol O Holy Night, we “Fall on our knees, and hear the angel voices. O night divine; it is the night of our dear Savior’s birth.” 

Christmas also promises that this same God who was birthed as Jesus will be birthed in you and me. For God is birthing everywhere, all the time - in your sleepless nights, in your creativity, in your struggle to love, to be happy, to become. God is moving within you, responding to your call for help, nudging you to higher ground. 

What difference does it make to know this? I don’t know about you, but I can’t get through this life without something else, beyond my very limited capacity. By myself, I can’t love the unlikeable; I can’t comprehend the evil of this world such as what happened in that classroom in Connecticut 10 days ago. By myself, I can’t sustain a clear and open consciousness; I can’t make myself become the person I feel called to be. 

And so I open myself to the One who I know is everywhere, who is in the sky, yes, but who is also within me and you as the force of life and love, active in deeply personal ways. Knowing this, I can remember that not everything is up to me alone. I can relax my grip and float on the stream of life, trusting that it will take me where I need to go. In fact, I stake my life on this. 

So be Bethlehem. Be God’s manger. Claim it as the locus of God’s birth. And take what is born here in this night of devotion, into your little old life in the days ahead, drawing upon this eternal, yet very personal Spirit that is incarnate in you. And stake your life upon it.

Sermon – St. Michael and All Angels
Luke 1:39-55
December 23, 2012

     I have traveled many moonless nights, cold and weary with a babe inside,
     And I wonder what I’ve done. 
     Holy God, you have come and chosen me now to carry your son.

One of the dangers of a familiar story is that we often take it for granted. We are so busy moving forward into this season of Advent that we don’t stop and think about how terrifying it must have been for a young girl to be chosen by God. She said yes, but there must have been so many questions. Why me? What if I can’t do this? Is there some other way? What about Joseph? How many songs did she sing before the Magnificat? I wonder if her first song was a little less confident…

     I am waiting in a silent prayer, I am frightened by the load I bear.
     In a world as cold as stone, must I walk this path alone?
     Be with me now, be with me now.

I have just finished Terry Tempest William’s newest book When Women Were Birds. She says, “In Mormon culture, women are expected to do two things: keep a journal and bear children. Both gestures are a participatory bow to the past and to the future.” (p. 20) The book is based on a mystery. Before her mother dies, she tells Terry that she is leaving all her journals to her. After she dies, Terry goes to the journals (one for each year) and opens them. They are all blank! The book is an attempt to understand her mother’s voice. What was she thinking? Terry describes picking up journal after journal and discovering that they were all blank. To illustrate, she follows with several blank pages in her own book. I found myself racing through the blank pages looking for the next words as if they would comfort me somehow…as if that is the job of a book. I was curious at my own discomfort in the series of blank pages. 

Those stark, blank pages call to mind the times when there simply are no words. Perhaps you know what I mean…moments beautiful beyond belief when the most we can utter is a gasp; moments so devastating that all we can do is reach for the hand of another; moments of utter loss when we stand in the gap and wait for something to show us the next step. In the wake of the Newtown, Connecticut tragedy, I open my mouth to speak and find only emptiness: blank pages. There are no words to explain, to comfort, to ease our despair. What holds us together in times like these? Can we trust that there is light in the darkness even if we can’t see it? Before Mary sang, did she wait in the darkness, in the emptiness, filled with terror and loneliness? When we find ourselves lost in the darkness fearful and alone, we may find that God meets us in the gap where words fall short.

Breath of Heaven, hold me together, be forever near me, Breath of Heaven.
Breath of Heaven, lighten my darkness, pour over me your holiness 
for you are holy, Breath of Heaven.

The word magnificat means to magnify. In this poem, Mary focuses her lens on a God who is not only great, but also good. She moves from her own fear to looking at the one who has called her. She recognizes that hope is not found in her own greatness, but in the one whose love and mercy goes beyond human imagination. She rejoices in a God who keeps promises and cares for people in such tender ways. She celebrates from her place on the margins as the one who has been chosen to carry God. This song is deeply personal and it is a song of a God who is changing the world through the birth of a child. It is a song of joy and hope sung by one who is risking her life by saying yes. She could be stoned for carrying this child.

Each year Christmas pageants portray Mary as a passive, boring character. She walks in at the end and stands there looking angelic as if her role in this magnificent story is just showing up. But Mary is a young woman of great courage. She stands at the edge of society and sings of a God who has done great things, has shown mercy and strength, scattered the proud, brought down the powerful and lifted up the lowly, filled the hungry and sent the rich away empty. 
     Breath of Heaven. 
Where did she find this song? How did she go from being a terrified teenager, to a young woman whose confidence is grounded in God?
     Breath of Heaven 
Somehow she went to the deepest place inside and found words to describe a God who is beyond words. 

     For you are holy, Breath of Heaven.

What if the Magnificat, one of the most powerful pieces of poetry in scripture grew out of a faltering prayer, a simple, “help me”? What if she somehow understood that this wasn’t about who she was or what she was capable of? What if she woke up and understood that it was about allowing God to be God in and through her?

     Do you wonder as you watch my face, if a wiser one should have had my place?
     But I offer all I am for the mercy of your plan.
     Help me be strong, help me be…
     Help me.

We tend to think in terms of what we have to offer; of what we can and can’t do and forget that faith means opening ourselves to the fullness of God. One of the most profound examples of faith is Mary saying yes despite all her uncertainty. She was saying yes to God and shifting her focus from her own inadequacy to the one who can heal our world.

This story asks us to believe the impossible and take our place in it. It is not a story for bystanders. Everyone is invited to peek into the manger to witness the miracle before us and proclaim it to the world. It asks us to step into the fullness of God with us and allow God to be born in us. Who knows what will happen then?

     Breath of Heaven, hold me together, be forever near me, Breath of Heaven.
     Breath of Heaven, lighten my darkness, pour over me your holiness 
     for you are holy, Breath of Heaven.

Elizabeth tells Mary that John “leaped for joy” in her womb at the sound of Mary’s greeting. Mary’s song is one of joy at a God who fills the world with goodness. She sings with hope trusting that God is bringing healing to a world full of hurt. There are many who are hurting this morning. As we prepare for the coming of Christ, many in Newtown have put away their Christmas decorations. It is just too painful. Yet, it is into this world of brokenness and despair that God steps and brings hope. We are invited to say yes without even fully understanding what yes means. We may find that with our yes comes a song of hope from some deep place inside. 

A song like that doesn’t deny the reality of suffering, but it acknowledges that, with God, suffering is never the last word. It recognizes God is at work even now, even in the darkness, even in the uncertainty, even in the emptiness. That is what hope looks like. It doesn’t suggest that we have reached the happy ending we dreamed about. It acknowledges that God is in all things.

     Breath of Heaven, hold me together, be forever near me, Breath of Heaven.
     Breath of Heaven, lighten my darkness, pour over me your holiness 
     for you are holy, Breath of Heaven.

Terry Tempest Williams says, “Once upon a time, when women were birds, there was the simple understanding that to sing at dawn and to sing at dusk was to heal the world through joy. The birds still remember what we have forgotten, that the world is meant to be celebrated.”  (When Women Were Birds by Terry Tempest Williams, p. 205) 

     Breath of Heaven 
We can trust in that and celebrate as we wait for Christ to come in our midst.
     Breath of Heaven
We can open our mouths and release the joyful song that is growing within us.
     Breath of Heaven 
We can magnify God and say yes. 



*Breath of Heaven (Mary’s Song) – Words and Music by Chris Eaton and Amy Grant

Light into Darkness
Reflection
December 18, 2012

It is easy to be confused about what Christmas is in a world that acknowledges it with festive décor, an abundance of food and drink, parties and presents, and pressure to shop until we are deep in debt. The song “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” adds to the confusion. 

But those things are so far from what Christmas really is. If you read the scripture, you will see that it is actually a story of pain, loneliness and fear. It’s a story of being chosen by God. But, we shouldn’t romanticize that either. Throughout the Bible, being chosen by God was far from good news. In this case, a pregnant unmarried teenager had to find her way in unknown territory as she lived with the risk of being stoned. It was terrifying and lonely to be chosen.

The Christmas story in the gospels doesn’t include chestnuts roasting on an open fire, a snowman named Frosty or a reindeer with a red nose. The story is one of God stepping into the mess of our lives and becoming human – not at a five-star hotel, but in a smelly barn where the rejected go. From Jesus’ first breath, he is in the midst of the pain of ordinary human life. His entire ministry is with those who are hurting and discarded. He dies as one rejected by society, abandoned by his closest friends.

So if you feel rejected and abandoned – if you feel grief or fear or pain of any kind tonight – the Christmas story is for you. It tells us that God has come among us to share our troubles. So we can bring our pain to God and trust that God understands it – from personal experience.

We gather tonight with our own burdens and we remember that we are not alone. We hold the people of Newtown, Connecticut in our hearts and know there is nothing we can do to take away their pain. But we trust God is with them in ways beyond our comprehension.

As we sit with all the pain and grief in our world tonight, we can turn to others who lived with incredible pain and suffering. There are times when it feels like we are the only ones who are hurting, but all around us people are in pain. Even so, I am often stunned at the resilience of the human spirit. At the end of a horrific experience, we may find ourselves looking back and asking, “How did I survive that?”

Corrie Ten Boom was a Dutch Christian who was sent to Ravensbruck concentration camp by the Nazis during the Second World War. She and her family had helped Jewish people escape the Nazi Holocaust. Corrie and her sister Betsie went to Ravesnbruck and Betsie eventually died of the sufferings she endured there. Listen to the words Betsie spoke to Corrie just before she died: “You must go all over the world and tell people what we have discovered here. You must tell them that there is no pit so deep that God is not deeper still. And they will believe you, because you have been here”.

“There is no pit so deep that God is not deeper still.” That was true for Corrie and Betsie, and it can be true for us tonight as well. So let us turn to God in our pain and struggle, knowing that God hears our prayers and shares our sufferings, and that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love for us.

The audacity of hope is not that our suffering is over tonight, but that we can rest in the One who has lived our pain. In our own darkness, God is with us beckoning us toward the dim light in the distance. We may not see it at all, or perhaps only a little. But we don’t have to see it. God keeps the light for us until we can see it ourselves. God gently holds us in the places that seem to be beyond all hope. God’s love is more than enough.

My friend Jan Richardson wrote a blessing for the longest night. It is a reminder that we may not be able to see in the dark, but the dawn is coming. We can trust that the steps we take will lead us toward the dawn.

Blessing for the Longest Night
-Jan L. Richardson

All throughout these months
as the shadows
have lengthened,
this blessing has been
gathering itself,
making ready,
preparing for
this night.

It has practiced
walking in the dark,
traveling with
its eyes closed,
feeling its way
by memory
by touch
by the pull of the moon
even as it wanes.

So believe me
when I tell you
this blessing will
reach you
even if you
have not light enough
to read it;
it will find you
even though you cannot
see it coming.

You will know
the moment of its
arriving
by your release
of the breath
you have held
so long;
a loosening
of the clenching
in your hands,
of the clutch
around your heart;
a thinning
of the darkness
that had drawn itself
around you.

This blessing
does not mean
to take the night away
but it knows
its hidden roads,
knows the resting spots
along the path,
knows what it means
to travel
in the company
of a friend.

So when
this blessing comes,
take its hand.
Get up.
Set out on the road
you cannot see.

This is the night
when you can trust
that any direction
you go,
you will be walking
toward the dawn.

December 16, 2012
God’s presence in evil
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

The past few days have been very rough for our nation. Everyone, from our President to every parent, teacher, every person who knows the innocence and beauty of children, is sickened by the horrific massacre at the Newtown, Connecticut elementary school. We can’t imagine the suffering of those kids who were killed, their parents, and the surviving children, who will be scarred for life. And it makes us feel vulnerable to the potential of random violence. This could happen anywhere, to anyone. 

The fact that this has also happened recently in Oregon, Colorado and other places makes us sometimes wonder what has happened to our society. Many conclude that our moral fabric is unraveling. I don’t see it this way. I think there’s always been about the same amount of goodness and evil in the world. Imagine what a violent place medieval Europe must have been, or New York in the 19th century. The difference today is simply that the deranged who are full of hate have access to an unprecedented flood of guns, especially automatic weapons, making their killing that much more devastating. 

In times such as these we reach for something to prevent more tragedies. Some will, and should, focus their outrage towards “meaningful action,” as our President said. This public conversation needs to happen with an urgency we have not yet summoned, regardless of the politics or pressure of well-funded lobby groups. 

In addition to the search for meaningful action, there is, in the background, a much bigger question. It is our struggle with the reality of evil. How could someone do this? How did they become so dark? What does it say about the human condition that such things are possible? In incidents like these, what is always lurking in the background - war, torture, tyranny, robbery, abuse, rape, gang warfare - comes rushing to the foreground, and there is no escaping what we’d usually rather not think about: evil. How do we deal with it? If we need something more helpful than philosophical speculation about it, what does our faith tradition have to offer us? 

Some imagine that by faith and prayer, they can protect themselves and their loved ones from evil. Others imagine a religious revival that will root out the cause of moral decay. But neither of these have ever really worked. I’m sure many of those Newtown families prayed every day for God’s protecting hand. And religious movements attempting to reform society have come and gone. 

What remains from our faith tradition is one thing, but it is more than enough. It is God’s presence. When God entered human history in the life of Jesus, God did not offer a shield against danger for everyone or a practical social program. Bad things continued to happen. King Herod, like Adam Lanza on Friday, slaughtered the innocents after the wise men told him of the Savior’s birth. They crucified Jesus. The Romans remained as an oppressive occupying force, and shortly after Christ, destroyed Jerusalem and scattered the chosen people. 

What God offered in Jesus Christ, and what God offers all of us all the time, is presence. In Christ, God revealed the light of divine truth and love, and there it stood, pure and unguarded, before the whole world. That’s what God always does. Hear the words of our first reading again: Sing and rejoice, O daughter Zion! For lo, I will come and dwell in your midst, says the Lord. [You] shall be my people; and I will dwell in your midst. 

“What good is that?” you might ask, “to have God just standing around?” Well, I can think of at least two benefits that come from God’s presence. The first is a clear choice. The divine truth and love reveal the clear choice we have - the responsibility - as to how we shall respond to it. 

We see this truth and love unveiled in God’s Word in scripture, in scriptures of every faith tradition. We see it in Christ and every enlightened figure or saint through history. We see it in this room as we celebrate the sacrament. We see it in nature. We see it wherever holiness shines forth. As St. Paul urged the congregation in Philippi, 
Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

We think about these things, and we make choices that are in our power to make, and good prevails through us. We have the power to choose to not become an Adam Lanza, and instead, to guard our children. We have the power to affect meaningful legislative action that will make our nation more safe. We have the power to be compassionate, to understand, to forgive, to forsake addiction and hatred and everything else that destroys God’s creation. We have the power to choose to be good because God shows us what is good. 

This was one of the effects of the appearance of the Virgin of Guadalupe, whose feast we celebrate this day. She too witnessed to the presence of God, to divine goodness, mercy, and light. By her presence, some of the Spanish clergy and conquistadors chose to think about those things that are honorable, just, and commendable, and they fought against the slavery and abuse of the indigenous people. Because of the Virgin of Guadalupe’s continuing presence and witness to God in the Americas, there are gang members who choose to forsake their life of crime, drugs, and violence, and help others escape the same cycle. 

Secondly, God’s presence brings us comfort. This is more important than we may ever realize. Imagine what life would be like for a child who survived the recent massacre in Newtown if she didn’t have a loving parent to hold her on Friday night. Imagine what your life would be like if you had no comfort, no understanding, and you were all alone in the world. 

Other people can provide this presence, and God is certainly present through them. But God is also present to us as God. For when we pray or meditate, if we can settle down beneath our hopes and worries of the day, if we can settle into this pew and open our heart to God’s presence, an amazing thing happens. God comes to us, rising up from within. We experience God’s peace that passes all understanding. We know, deep in our souls, that no matter what our circumstances, all shall be well in God. 

This is not the simplistic assurance that nothing bad will happen. It is the transcendent and unshakeable understanding that we are precious and beloved to God, and it is in God that we live and move and have our being, and that nothing can threaten this. Sing and rejoice! You shall be my people; and I will be your God.

This is the message of the Incarnation - God came among us to share our life. This is the experience of Jesus on the cross, moving from “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me,” to the peace that passes even that circumstance and led him to finally say “Into your hands I commend my spirit.” This is what will get the people of Newtown Connecticut through the days, months, and years ahead. 

And this is what the Virgin of Guadalupe has offered to millions of Latin Americans from 1531 to the present day: the comfort of God’s loving presence. She has stood like a rock in the midst of their poverty, oppression and personal suffering, saying, like a mother, “You are precious and beloved, so I will always be with you. God is with you. You are not alone.”

Today, as the great festival of Christmas draws near, the pure and unguarded presence of a divine child stands before us to offer us the choice for goodness and the comfort of peace. In a world that is sometimes frighteningly evil, this choice and this comfort is the only thing we can hold on to. It is all that God has ever offered, and it has always been more than enough.

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December 2, 2012
The First Sunday of Advent
Spiritual Pregnancy
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

If I were Liturgical Czar of the Episcopal Church, I would decree that we would change some of the gospel readings assigned for this time of year by easing up a little on the apocalypse. Most of you probably don’t keep track, but every year, four Sundays in a row, from mid-November through mid-December, and then again in mid-January, we’ve got earthquakes and famines, crumbling kingdoms, valleys lifted up and mountains made low, foreboding and repentance, and chaff burned in the unquenchable fire! Happy Advent!

The world is ending, Jesus is coming again, and you’d better beware! I am convinced that our lectionary inspired some Episcopalian to write the popular Christmas song: 
You better watch out; he’s making a list; he’s gonna find out!
Santa Claus is coming to town.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, there’s something else going on, as we begin the season of Advent today. In case we forget, there’s a very pregnant woman off in the corner - Mary of Nazareth. By the action of the Holy Spirit, she’s been filled, literally, with divine life. So today I’d like to redirect the spotlight to the miracle of pregnancy, but more specifically, to the miracle of being pregnant with God’s life, as Mary was.  

Now we men will never understand what pregnancy is like. But many of us get to experience it second-hand. From a short distance, we know about morning sickness, backaches, and craving for pickles and ice cream. And we are there during the unimaginable pain of birth. Mary, yes, the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of Our Lord, went through all of this with Joseph by her side. 

But there’s something else, a mystery at work in every pregnancy. What is going on in there? How can a person grow inside a person? Who will it be? What will happen in their lifetime? How will our lives change? 

Mary and Joseph, like every couple, probably felt all these things. It was a wondrous time of unknowing. Something was growing inside a hidden place, slowly being shaped into something that would take on a life of its own. By themselves, they couldn’t make this shaping take place, and neither could they control the outcome. 

There is a way in which this story, and more broadly, every pregnancy, can help us see how sometimes the miracle of God’s new life grows in us and gives birth: the conception, the interminable waiting, our ignorance of what is taking place inside all those months, and the surprising outcome. 

What really happens during that kind of spiritual pregnancy, and more to the point, how do we cooperate faithfully with the action of grace? 

Many models of change and new beginnings assume that we know where we’re going. We create a plan, we march step by step through that plan, and we arrive at our destination. We are asked, rhetorically, How can you get there if you don’t know where you’re going? Or as Yogi Berra put it,"You've got to be very careful if you don't know where you're going, because you might not get there."

But I’ve found that some of the times of change, perhaps the most important ones, happen differently. It often begins with the realization that for several months we’ve been in a time of instability, where things are shifting. Something needs to be different, but we don’t know exactly what or how. It’s not a comfortable feeling. 

Then, having realized this, we want the instability to resolve itself right away. But it doesn’t. Things remain uncomfortable, where all we’ve got is the sense that things need to change, but no idea how to affect it. We imagine possible solutions as if trying on different clothes in the changing room, but nothing fits, nothing looks good on us. We may even yield to the impulse to force a resolution. But that doesn’t work either. 

And so we pray for guidance. I believe that God hears and responds to our prayers. Whether we feel it or not, the Holy Spirit comes upon us and conceives something in us, deep in the womb of our souls. Then begins a time of spiritual pregnancy. At this point, the work of faith is to trust that God has responded to our prayer, that divine conception has happened, and to patiently wait. 

But it isn’t a passive waiting, as if we could just put it on the shelf, forget about it, and then come back to see if it’s grown. Think again of a pregnant woman, of Mary. She is active in her waiting. She gives herself intentionally, prayerfully, to the growth that she knows is taking place in the womb, even before she is showing. She stays healthy, and remains attentive and responsive. 

So it is with spiritual pregnancy: we remain attentive to the signs of growth, we nurse it along. We talk to friends and spiritual guides, we read, we search. We respond to signs that appear along the way. But we don’t force it along. We can’t.

And when the time of spiritual gestation is fulfilled, something good comes into being. But it’s not usually not what we thought it would be, any more than a new child is predictable. I have learned that now. For me, a long, uncomfortable time of unknowing and waiting inevitably gives way to new creativity, fresh energy, possibilities I couldn’t have seen ahead of time. God is faithful, and surprising. 

Two and a half years ago, 6 months prior to the long sabbatical I took, I was already in a quandary. The sabbatical plans I had made had evaporated, and I was left with an unplanned 7 months stretching out before me, as if I were on a ship about to enter the equatorial doldrums. On one level, I was happy, for there was a sense of call. It felt as if something important but indefinable had been conceived. On another level, I was terrified. With nothing to do, would I become nothing? 

So I made little plans of what to do with my time, and carried some of them out, but the real work of the sabbatical was learning to come to terms with daily life without a purpose. I had talked about the sacredness of the ordinary for years, but there I was, in it, and I didn’t know if God would deliver. 

What happened over that year - what is in fact still happening - is probably related to aging: a very gradual dying of the ego - the restless impulse to make a life, to produce and improve, to move on towards the next better thing. 

With the ego out of the way, the present opens itself in its own graceful way. I found out that I don’t always have to chase after life. If I let it, it rises up to meet me. It’s along the lines of what the spiritual teacher, Ram Dass, found out after his stroke. 40 years prior, he had written a book called Be Here Now. But it wasn’t until he lived with the paralyzing effects of a stroke that he really knew what “being here now” was.

I’ve seen this spiritual pregnancy and birth happen again and again in our parish community. It begins with dissatisfaction, or a sense of call, or an unexpected event. We pray, God responds, and a conception takes place. This gives way to discernment, which takes a long time. Things move slowly below the surface, spreading from person to person in the community. Something is growing among us, but we can’t see it. Eventually it births itself, surprising us all. This happened with a change in clergy leadership one year ago. It is happening with the Who is My Neighbor? process. And it will happen again and again. 

I wonder if you, too, have had - or right now are in the midst of - a spiritual pregnancy. If so, I offer you this, in closing, from Teilhard de Chardin, the Roman Catholic priest and mystic of the last century. 

Let [this something new in you] grow.  Let [it] shape [itself] without undue haste.  Do not try to force [it] as though you could be today 
what time - that is to say, grace and circumstances - acting on your own good will  will make you tomorrow.  Only God could say what this new Spirit  gradually forming in you will be.

Give our Lord the benefit of believing  that his hand is leading you,  and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself  in suspense and incomplete.  Above all, trust in the slow work of God.