It always feels somewhat obscene to preach on this Gospel.  I experience these words like water to a thirsty throat, like ripples of light over my skin.  If I were stuck on a desert island with one reading, it would be this one.  You could meditate on it for all your life and never exhaust it.  

            So I will say a couple short things and invite you to waltz into the text in your own way to let it become what it will in the silence of your own heart.

            The word “word” here is not like a word you could find in a dictionary.  Remember that the ancients wrote very little.  Theirs was the oral tradition where the event actually lived on in the telling.  To read and discuss the Jewish literature of the Talmud was to encounter the living God.  In the retelling of the story of the Last supper at our Eucharist, we are not just remembering; we are participating again in the original meal.  “”On the night before he died for us…” and we are there.  In John’s Gospel, the Word” is creative.  It is what exploded at the Big Bang, cast galaxies, stars, and nebulae across the universe, started the process of evolving life from microscopic creatures in the ocean on into complex creatures like running cheetahs, diving humpback whales, soaring Sandhill cranes.  And it created us with our fantastically connected systems of blood, bile, neurons, muscles, oxygen, which allow us to play the piano, write a letter, touch a child.  That Word is never static.  It did not just speak once and not again.

            The Aboriginal people, when they do their walk-abouts have to sing as they walk, so that their words create the land over the horizon.  They understand the creative power of words.  The Inuits, as the days darken into the long winter without the sun, sing the sun back into the sky.  They too understand the creative power of words.  Since we have just passed the Solstice, clearly it works.

            But Richard Valantasis reminds us the Greek word we translate “word” here means far more than that.  It is not just the creating word.  It is also a dynamic word, going out, responding, going out anew, responding—it is actually closer to the word “conversation.”  So hear it again: “In the beginning was the Conversation.  And the Conversation was with God, and the Conversation was God….Without the Conversation nothing was made that was made…And the Conversation became Flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen the glory…”

            And so that gives us a new image for Jesus, the Conversation made flesh and dwelling among us.  It means that it is the intent of the Holy to be in relationship with all creation, to communicate, to love, to experience, to laugh, to weep, to be involved and a part of Creation itself.  The Holy is not remote, setting things in motion and then going off to play golf on the far side of Heaven.  The Holy is always present, always calling, always inviting, always yearning for us to pay attention.  God is not “out there” waiting for us to get our acts together before God leaps into the fray.  

            Recently someone said to me “I’ll come back to church when I get my act together.”  I responded, “If your act is together when you come back to church, you’ll be the only one there with a perfect act!”  When a man came up to the altar for Eucharist once with his arms crossed, muttering, “I am not worthy, I am not worthy,” my friend the priest responded, “None of us is worthy!  Take it!”  Let go of self-judgment.  If wonder why I am the only one in the world without a picture perfect Christmas home, or church, or service then I have placed my own worthiness up as an idol.  So quickly we can beat on ourselves.  Let it go.  Let it all go.  If God asks none of that from us, why should we?

            Christmas is not a Currier and Ives card.  Christmas is not a Hallmark movie.  Christmas is the message that God comes into our real world, enters our real lives, walks among real people.  God steps into what is messy and broken, what is perpetually unfinished and abandoned, into what is clueless and doubting.  Like me.  Maybe like you.  God is born in pain and blood to a young woman who had no more idea about being a mother than I did, let alone the mother of God.  

            God does not wait for us to welcome him properly.  Instead, God turns the tables on us.  God becomes us to welcome us into new life in God.  God does not wait for us to prepare a place for him; God instead comes to prepare a place for us.  God does not expect us to be worthy to receive him.  God makes us worthy by coming among us and sharing our life in our skin with all that that means.  Do you know that?  Really?  Do you welcome that?

            Incarnation says God is with us w-a-a-a-ay before we come to perfection.  When all things were quite silent, before we even noticed, the Almighty Word leaped down, and in, and through.  An old English hymn I love sings  “The maker of all things is made of the earth; man is worshiped by angels, and God comes to birth.”  That’s not just the ending; it’s also the beginning

            Woah!  Do you see how this changes everything?  It means everything is holy.  The ground we walk on, the air we breathe, the water we drink, the hands we touch!  There is nothing outside the Conversation!  We are never—can be never alone.  Even those who feel the pain of aloneness at this time of year are included in the sanctity of the Conversation with God whose love for all Creation brought God into relationship with all of it in ways that continue their dynamic, joyful creative process. 

            Here is an image I leave with you.  Imagine a great dance—the greatest dance, in which all things participate, from the tiniest naked mole rat to the galaxies themselves, each with billions of stars, all bowing, spinning, leaping, twirling, kicking their heels (tails, fins, wings) to the cosmic music of utter joy.  Each of us also is there in our human bodies which astonishingly—never get sore or tired of  dancing.   And among us all dances the Creator, dancing with you, and you, and you, who is also the music, the light, the process, calling us to the joy of praise with wild abandon, head thrown back in ecstasy of delight when we enter the party.  That is Christmas, Beloved.  The Word, the Conversation, the Dance was made flesh; was made us; was made you, me, together in the service of love, and holds out the hand of invitation.  Would you like to dance?

Here we are
The fourth Sunday in Advent
Just days from Christmas
Listening to a story most of us have heard many times before.
We know what is going to happen as soon as we hear
            “the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth.”
The angel announces, Mary says yes.
No surprises here.
And we know what comes next.
A baby in a manger.
Traditions of trees and cookies,
            posole and posadas,
            luminarias and hand-held candles and Silent Night.
But perhaps if we take a closer look at Mary and her story,
            we will find something there that we need to hear  -
            a word that speaks to us in the midst of our busy and often stressful lives.
The gospel story today begins with a blessing
Before Mary says Yes to the angel Gabriel – says yes to God’s plan –
            she is blessed.
The first thing the angel says to Mary is,
            “Greetings, highly favored one. The Lord is with you”
God sees Mary
God loves Mary
God has work for Mary to do – to be a blessing to the world.
Mary is often hailed as an ideal.
There is even a Roman Catholic doctrine that Mary was immaculately conceived,
            so that at the moment of her physical conception she was miraculously freed
            from the taint of original sin.
I guess the thinking is that a sinful human being could not possibly carry the divine Son of God within her body.
But I think that misses the point of the Incarnation.
I think the very point is that Mary is a regular person.
Nobody special.
Especially in that time a place,
            a young unmarried woman was a person with no status or position at all.
Yet God chooses her.
Just as Jesus will choose his disciples, not from among the rich and powerful,
            the wise and learned, but from ordinary fishermen and even despised tax collectors           – and even women!
The point is that God chooses to bless and use ordinary people for God’s work.
People a lot like us.
As familiar as this story is to us,
it is the first step in God’s most amazing, unexpected plan.
God chose to become Emmanuel – God with us.
And God chose to come, not as Ceasar or Pharoah, a god-king elevated above the people –
            but as a regular, ordinary person.
A baby.
God becomes incarnate, takes on flesh to live a human life,
            and in so doing God affirms the holiness of human life.
God chooses an ordinary young woman to be the mother of Jesus
          – just as God has chosen the lowly and ordinary throughout history to do God’s work.
Even King David was chosen by God when he was a young shepherd boy.

Some scholars have pointed out that Mary’s conversation with the angel is a lot like the stories in the old Testament when God chooses a prophet.
Think of Moses.
God appears to him in a burning bush, and says, “do not be afraid.”
Like Mary, Moses is skeptical at first – “how can I do this task? I cannot speak for you!”
Like Mary, he does agree to God’s plan – and his actions change the world.
Remember Isaiah, who sees a vision in which God calls him to be a prophet.
“I cannot do that!” says Isaiah. “I am an unclean man, from an unclean people!”
An angel purifies him with the touch of a coal to his lips,
        and he becomes a prophet, speaking God’s words of love and judgment to God’s poeple.
In a way, Mary too is called to a prophetic task.
I like this idea of Mary as a prophet, whose message from God is Jesus.
She is called to bear the Word of God in her very body,
            to bring that Word  into the world in a new way.
Mary is skeptical, too.
How can this be? she asks.
I think she is wondering not only about the physical reality – I have not been with a man!
            - but about how it can be that God has chosen her to do this thing.
And here is the question – did Mary know what she was agreeing to when she agreed to go along with God’s plan?
And the answer is, of course not.
Any of you who have parented a child know that there is nothing predictable or simple about a baby – especially once it becomes a toddler – or a teenager.
The angel doesn’t tell her that Jesus is heading for a cross.
But if there is one thing we can be pretty sure of,
            it is that Mary is a faithful Jewish woman.
She knows the stories.
She knows the kind of people God chooses to do God’s work.
And she knows the outcome aren’t always easy.
But Mary, like the prophets, is willing to commit herself to this God,
            who often works in unexpected ways.  
She is willing to embrace a new future, of which she has little understanding,
            based solely on the fact that God had seen her.
God knows her.
God loves her.
And God has work for her to do – work that will change the whole world.
And so it is with us.
We like to think we know what is going to happen next,
            that we have it all worked out.
We like to think that God will answer our prayers in the way we expect and hope for,
            and we will continue on our merry ways
But we, too, know the stories.
The Bible stories – and our own stories.
We know that God often shows up in unexpected places,
            bringing something new when we have given up hope,
            or calling us to a new challenge when we were going a different direction.
Sometimes God just shows up - in a smile or a flower or a sunset or in music or art or a million little ways - to let us know we are seen and loved, when we least expect it.
Our stories, too, begin with a blessing.
God sees you.
God knows you.
God loves you.
That is one reason we baptize infants –
            to remind us that it is God who chooses, loves, and blesses us.
Before we have a chance to prove ourselves.
Before we either succeed or fail.
Before we do much of anything, God sees us and loves who we are.
God splashes us with a blessing.
And then, then God invites us into the work of carrying God’s blessing into the world.
May each of us learn, with Mary, to say “Here I am, the servant of the Lord” when God calls.
Thanks be to God.
Amen.

Here we are. In the midst of a season marked by busyness and high expectations – take a moment to be quiet.
Take a deep breath
            and hear these words of Jesus:
Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you, . . .  and you will find rest for your souls.
Most of us are here this evening because we are carrying heavy burdens.
Burdens of grief, depression, or loneliness.
Burdens which feel heavier in these weeks because it feels like everyone else is celebrating.
The pressure to be merry and bright seems to weigh us down even more.
Into these hard places Jesus offers rest.
Rest.
Does that sound as good to you as it sounds to me.
Rest.
Jesus invites us to sink deeply into his love –
             the love that nothing we do or feel can take from us –
            and let our souls rest
One of my favorite passages in Isaiah says,
            Thus says the Lord your God,         
            In rest and returning shall be your salvation,
            in quietness and trust shall be your strength.
I love those words.
A reminder to us in our busiest season,
            to return our attention to God and rest in God’s love.
The passage goes on to say,
            But you refused and said, no, we will flee upon our horses
Isn’t that so often the way of it?
God invites us to return, to seek peace and rest in God –
            but we are busy with other things.
We are busy meeting people’s expectations,
            or trying to live up to our own ideals of how we SHOULD behave and feel.
Or we run away because we know that, in returning to God,
            we may come face to face with our deepest selves –
            and we are not sure we are ready for that encounter.
So in these coming days, as the celebrations of Christmas reach their fevered pitch,
            I invite you to take some time to rest.
Maybe that means letting ourselves have a good cry.
Maybe that means letting ourselves rage at the unfairness of it all –
            expressing our pent up anger to God or to a trusted friend.
Maybe that means letting going of something we SHOULD do,
            and just going for a walk, or taking a nap, instead. 
Maybe it means letting to of a tradition or expectation that is just too painful this year –
            knowing we can always pick it up again another time.
Hear the words:
nothing in all creation – not grief, not anger, not mistakes we have made, not addiction or loneliness or depression – can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.
There is no promise that bad things won’t happen. We know that.
God’s love doesn’t shield us from the normal griefs of human life –
            or even from the unfair, unthinkable things that sometimes happen.
But God promises to be with us in our grief, anger and fear.
God promised that there is nothing so bad that it separates us from God –
            even when we don’t feel God’s presence with us.
In John’s account of Christmas, there are no angels and shepherds,
            no stable and wise men from afar.
Instead, John simply tells us that the Word of God –
            God’s eternal wisdom,
            the spark of life through which all creation came into being –
God’s own self became human and dwelt among us.
Christmas time is the reminder that our God is Emmanuel – God with us.
God with us then, living a human life in Galilee,
            and God with us now, filling us with comfort and peace.
The light shines in the darkness.
The light is Christ’s love.
The light is the goodness of creation.
The light is the Word of God, the very spark of life.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.
When it gets too hard, light a candle and remember –
the light of God’s love shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.
Rest in that promise.
Rest in that light.
And may the peace of God, which passes all understanding,
            fill you in this season and always. 

Have you heard about the ruckus in Santa Fe?  Have you heard about all the fuss being made over an image of Guadalupe now hanging at a gallery in Santa Fe?  A bare-breasted Guadalupe.  Imagine that!  Actually, we don’t have to imagine that.  We just have to remember.  Remember all the fuss last summer over a cartoon image of Guadalupe.  Remember the brouhaha over Alma Lopez’s busty, bikini-clad version of La Morenita—the little brown virgin—exhibited  in Santa Fe over a decade ago.  Yet still folks cling to that version of Guadalupe that resides in the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe at Tepeyac Hill in Mexico City.

Isn’t it odd how folks cling to sanitized versions of things?  Isn’t it odd how folks hold tight to a really quite light and not at all revolutionary Guadalupe?  Isn’t it odd how far folks depart from the stories we hear today and the worlds in which they are set?

A young girl, a teenager, poor, pregnant, not married, living in a land occupied by foreign troops, an outpost of a foreign empire.  A child, really.  Preparing to bring a child into a world where the rich and well born feast while the poor are sent away hungry.  A young woman bringing a baby into a world where empty crosses, remnants of state-sanctioned torture and murder, clutter otherwise barren hills.  A young woman without a place to birth her baby.

And yet that young girl sings, “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord....the Almighty has great things for me, and holy is his name....He has cast down the mighty from their thrones and lifted up the lowly....”  Hers is the song of a revolutionary—one who understands and claims and suffers for as well—her role in changing the world in which she lives.  This Mary, this Mary of Nazareth, is no gentle Mary meek and mild.  Make no mistake about it.  She’s one determined sister.

And so is La Virgen—Guadalupe is what we call her.  When Juan Diego turns and faces her, he sees a face quite like his own—dark and brown.  There’s no mistaking that face.  It’s the face of a native.  And when she speaks, she speaks in his native tongue—Nahuatl.  Imagine a brown Virgin addressing a peasant farmer in his native tongue. Take note.  She’s not speaking Spanish.

Yet Guadalupe does not come to Juan Diego with a magic wand made of flowers and accompanied by song.  Though flowers cover the hillside and song fills the air.

Hers is not a solo act; hers is not a virtuoso performance. 

This moment is not a one-time event.

I’m not even sure it is she who carries the story.  For it’s Juan Diego—poor, brown, overlooked, pushed aside—who carries the action in the story we hear today.  It’s his courage, his perseverance, his determination that finally change the Bishop’s mind and maybe his heart as well. 

But this Guadalupe moment we celebrate today in flower and song—signs of the sacred, emblems of truth for the Nahuatl people and maybe for us as well—is so much more than the story of a peasant farmer, a vision of the virgin, a dubious bishop and a cloak full of flowers.  This story we hear today, this Guadalupe moment, is really an invitation.  An invitation to the people of Juan Diego’s day to join in the making of a new people, a new world—one that goes beyond the categories of their day—categories that divide along lines of race and class and color as well.

Listen to this invitation against the backdrop of our world—a world in which the most vulnerable—poor, brown, black, mentally ill, homeless—are often victims of systems promising to educate, protect and serve them.  A world not unlike the world in which young Mary of Nazareth gave birth to a child conceived out of wedlock.  A world in which reports of state-sponsored torture circulate side-by-side with reports of civic improvements.

Listen to this invitation against the backdrop of a crowd gathered at Civic Center Plaza

to support families whose children had been killed by police.  Speaking to the press and to the people assembled were three fathers determined that their son’s deaths would not be in vain.  As the press conference ended, one of those fathers turned to a friend and said, “It’s hard not to lose heart.”  Like Juan Diego circling around Teypeyac hill, those fathers grow weary. 

And so do I.  Maybe you grow weary too.  Weary of all that troubles our world.  Weary of the news of yet another killing, yet another peaceful demonstration co-opted by the rage of a few.  Weary of the growing gap between rich and poor. Weary of foxes monitoring chicken-coops.  Just plain weary. 

It’s tempting to cover our ears.  It’s tempting to go back to bed, pull up the covers and wait for another day.  It’s tempting to join with Juan Diego and steer clear of that virgin’s call.  It’s tempting to lose heart.

But that is not the Guadalupe way.  Two nights ago, on the Feast of Guadalupe, a group of people—women and men, young and old, brown and white, straight and gay—gathered in a circle around a fire.  They were celebrating the Feast of Guadalupe.  At one point in the evening the people in that circle grasped one another’s hand.  Then they placed their neighbor’s hand on their own heart.  Silence descended.  There, in that circle, there in that silence, people felt and heard one another’s heart beating.

Take a moment just to listen to the silence in this room; just to listen to the beat of our most human hearts.  In the echo of hearts beating lies an open invitation to hear the beat of broken hearts and to join our mother Guadalupe in the work of mending broken hearts and healing broken worlds.

O that you would tear open the heavens and come down,
            so that the mountains would quake at your presence 
The people of Israel, for whom Isaiah speaks, are longing for God.
They feel that God has hidden God’s face.
They long for the mighty deeds they have heard in the old stories –
            when God divided the red sea and led the people by a column of fire,
            when the face of Moses shone with the light of God’s revelation.
But now, God seems silent and far away.
The position of Israel is particularly poignant.
They have experienced exile in Babylon.
They have returned home to Israel,
            filled with excitement about all it would mean to come home.
They hoped that here, in the land of their ancestors,
            they would know God intimately.
Instead, home is an unknown place.
The temple has been destroyed and not yet rebuilt.
And God seems farther away than ever.
O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, O God,
            and make yourself known to us as you did to our ancestors!
I would guess that many of us here can relate to this poignant position.
We have gotten just what we wanted –
            the perfect job, a partner or family, a home of our own –
            but then find that it does not meet our hopes and expectations.
We have not been filled as we had expected to be.
Our happy ending lacks the fulfillment we’d hoped for.
What’s more, I think our American practice of Christmas sets us up
            for just this sort of disappointment.
We shop and bake and plan for the perfect family Christmas,
            but somehow reality never quite stacks up to our sugarplum dreams.
We grieve the loss of a loved one.
Loneliness which dogs us through the year is especially difficult
            in a season focused on togetherness.
The Spirit of Christmas is demanding and, ultimately, elusive.
That’s where Advent comes in.
With a reminder that the peace which passes understanding –
            the fulfillment of our lives and hopes –
            cannot be found in anything we plan or control.
It reminds us that God has chosen to come to us,
            to give us the peace and hope we long for.
Advent reminds us to keep awake –
            to pay attention to the many ways God comes to us.
It invites us to keep a practice of prayer and service and quiet attention,  
            amidst the Christmas lights and carols playing in every store and elevator.
In my reading this week, I came across a reflection by Pastor Patricia De Jong:
“Peace, the peace of shalom, is at the heart of the promise born at Advent,
 but it is difficult to arrive there safely and without becoming vulnerable along the way.”
We won’t find peace in buying or receiving the perfect gift,
            planning the perfect party, creating a perfect family Christmas –
            or even attending the perfect worship experience.
We won’t get there by our own effort or control.
Advent points us to the way God has chosen to come to us – quietly, almost invisibly, with an ordinary couple sent to sleep in a stable and a bunch of shepherds who find them there.
We can expect to see God, not in the heavens torn open, but in the vulnerable, messy places in our lives and the lives of others:
            whether a homeless vet asking for money at a street corner,
               or a harried store clerk wishing for just one word of kindness and patience;
            a friend going through a divorce
               or that family member who just can’t get along with anyone.
These are the people in whom we may find Christ in this Advent season.
Advent does not ask us not to celebrate the Christmas season.
It does not ask us to feel guilty about shopping and parties, concerts and programs.
It invites us to experience these things differently – to look beneath the dazzle of lights to see human needs and vulnerability in front of us.
De Jong says, “At Advent, God’s people summon the courage and the spiritual strength to remember that the holy breaks into the daily. In tiny ways, we can open our broken hearts to the healing grace of God, who opens the way of peace.”
Right now we are going to do a little preparation for Advent.
There is paper in the prayer books and pencils in the pews.
I invite you to take a piece of paper, and make a short list of some of the things that will occupy you in this next month.
If your season is not filled with extra activity, consider one or two things you might do  -      participate in an extra Friday worship service or Las Posadas here at St Michael’s; prepare stuffed stockings for people experiencing homelessness;
            help out at the food pantry as many of the regular volunteers take vacation.
Now, as you consider these things you have written down –
Think about how, in each of these activities, you might be attentive to the need of people around you – and also more open about your own needs.
. . . .
The prophet Isaiah longs for the past, and calls on God to come in power and might.
Then he reminds himself and his people that there is another way to see God.
Yet, O Lord, you are our Father;
we are the clay, and you are the potter;
we are all the work of your hand.
Theology Professor Scott Bader-Saye writes,
“the images of God as father and potter evoke a God whose mode of action looks more like that of the artist or the parent than that of the superhero. God forms and shapes the people as a potter lovingly molds her clay. Isaiah calls on Israel to be malleable in the hands of God, and he reminds God to fulfill the task of forming Israel into a people of blessing.”
May your hearts be open in this season of Advent
            to see where God appears
and to allow Christ the Potter to mold the clay and mud of your life
            into something beautiful and blessed.
Amen.