Christmas 2016
Pastor Joe Britton
St. Michael’s Church

​"What is Truth?"
 
“Behold, the dwelling of God is with humankind. God will dwell with us,
and we shall be God’s people, and God will be with us, and be our God.” (Rev. 21:3)
 
“What is truth? What is truth?” That is a question that will follow this child Jesus whom we celebrate tonight for all of his life. The people of his hometown will wonder by what authority he speaks so compellingly as a young man; his  disciples will debate the truth of who he is as he pursues his ministry among them; the scribes and the Pharisess will debate the authenticity of his teaching; and ultimately, the question will be put most directly to him at his own trial by Pontius Pilate: ”What is truth?”
 
The importance of Christmas, I think, is that it ultimately has to do with exactly this question, “What is truth?” And this is especially so this year, when we are aware of being surrounded by so much untruth. Indeed, in recent years, the deliberate spread of false information and the denial of demonstrable fact have become so prominent in our culture, that we have had to invent a vocabulary to name it: we now speak of “truthiness,” for example, as an acceptable level of veracity.
 
Christmas, however, points us back to truth itself. It does so, because the story it tells asks us first and foremost to look honestly at the truth about ourselves, seen in the light of what happens at Jesus’ birth. In the simplicity of Mary and Joseph and the humbleness of the back-alley setting of Jesus’ birth, the story challenges the self-important understanding we have of ourselves. We are, after all, so adept as human beings at constructing elaborate and well-defended accounts of our own security and importance, which we repeat over and over to ourselves to shore up the defenses around our sense of self.
 
But then, like the intrusion of the Holy Spirit into the life of Mary, life has a way of breaking through those fantasies, exposing their ultimate fragility and absurdity. A job is lost. There is a market crash. An illness robs us of our health. An accident snuffs out the life of our beloved.
 
And with what then are we left? This is where the Christmas story invites us to re-examine the truth about ourselves. And the first thing we might notice in doing so, is that despite the messiness and fragility of human life, God’s being and loving is strangely directed towards us. As the theologian Rowan Williams puts it, whereas we might expect that a God who is the creator of all things would be ashamed or reluctant to identify with our corrupted humanity, nevertheless God instead chooses in Jesus to take on the very flesh and bones of our life, crossing a boundary from the divine into solidarity with our humanity, just as it is.
 
Williams makes this point most strongly with reference to icons of Mary, many of which depict her holding the child Jesus gazing lovingly, longingly, insistently into her eyes. In such an image, we sense the divine presence enacting a love that does not depend on anything, except on having someone to love. In the gaze of her child Jesus, in other words, Mary is able to see herself truthfully—as one who is loved by him, which is to say, loved by God.
 
 Such an image encourages us likewise to see ourselves perhaps for the first time truly as we are: as the object of a love that does not depend on our attempts at managing our success or keeping control of our lives, but merely on God’s desire to love us. In a word, the truth about us, is that we are loved. We are the beloved of God not because of who we are, but simply because we are. That is the truth toward which Christmas leads.
           
            But if that is true, then we have some work to do truly to recognize and accept such a freely given divine love for ourselves. We too have a boundary to cross: from the confused picture we have of ourselves as secure either in the affirmation we receive from or the manipulation we make of other people, to the self-emptying poverty of spirit that is necessary to accept ourselves as loved for no other reason, than that we are. As Williams puts it, “I discover myself as someone who is being made real by God’s attention to me; I live because Christ looks at me,” just as the infant Jesus gazed at Mary.
           
In fact, the whole story of Jesus’ birth points us exactly in the direction of a poverty of spirit—a relinquishing of our own inflated self-importance—that turns out to be the prerequisite to knowing ourselves truly. The nativity narrative is given its shape and form by indicators pointing insistently and repeatedly toward just such a modesty. Think of the obscurity and unpretentiousness of Mary, chosen to bear the child Immanuel; or the simplicity and anonymity of Joseph, her betrothed; or the sacrificial trek they make together on foot and by donkey to Bethlehem; or their banishment to a stable at the end of the journey; or the coarseness of the shepherds to whom Jesus’ birth is first announced. At every turn, only those who have no reason to assume anything about their own importance are invited to be involved in God’s crossing of the boundary between heaven and earth—and perhaps the lesson for us is that only those who know they cannot trust their own self-congratulatory fantasies about themselves are in the end able to receive such good news as we hear tonight.
           
Perhaps this is what Oscar Romero, the martyred bishop of El Salvador, meant when he said in one of his Advent sermons:
 
No one can celebrate
a genuine Christmas
without being truly poor.

The self-sufficient, the proud,
those who, because they have
everything, look down on others,
those who have no need
even of God, for them there
will be no Christmas.

Only the poor, the hungry,
those who need someone
to come on their behalf,
will have that someone.

That someone is God.
Emmanuel. God-with-us.

Without poverty of spirit
there can be no abundance of God.
 
Christmas is about seeing ourselves with this kind of truthfulness, not just so that the distortions through which our pride and ego operate can be exposed for what they are, but even more importantly, so that we may see God truthfully for who God is: the one whose comprehensive, forgiving attention to us makes it possible for us to drop all the games of self-deception by which we otherwise try to live. Only when those games have ceased, is there room for the stranger to enter in; only then do perceived threats to our well-being retreat in importance; only then are our efforts directed to the common rather than individual good.
 
In a time such as this of such rampant untruth, living with the kind of truthfulness to which Mary gives witness may be the most important thing we as a community of faith have to do. This Christmas night challenges us to set a high bar of what it means to value truth, to act with integrity and restraint, to respect other people’s dignity and worth, and to instill those values in ourselves, our children, our church, our community, and our nation. This Christmas night challenges us to wrestle in all humility with that ultimate question with which we began: “What is truth?”
 
For to repeat: “No one can celebrate a genuine Christmas without being truly
poor. Without poverty of spirit there can be no abundance of God.” Amen.
 
 
© Joseph Britton, 2016
 
 
 
 
 

St Michael and All Angels Episcopal Church                             Pastor Kristin Schultz
4th Advent: Matthew 1                                                                December 18, 2016
 
 
Today’s gospel lesson starts at the 18th verse of chapter 1 of Matthew’s gospel.
Does anyone know what’s in the first 17 verses of Matthew?
It’s a text rarely read in church.
It goes like this:
 
       An account of the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah, the son of David, the son of Abraham.
      Abraham was the father of Isaac, and Isaac the father of Jacob, and Jacob the father of Judah and      
       his brothers, and Judah the father of Perez and Zerah by Tamar, and Perez the father of Hezron,
       and Hezron the father of Aram, and Aram the father of Aminadab, an Aminadab the father of
       Nahshon, and Nahshon the father of Salmon,and Salmon the father of Boaz by Rahab, and Boaz
       the father of Obed by Ruth, and Obed the father of Jesse, 6and Jesse the father of King David.
 
And that’s only the beginning.
So maybe you see why we don’t usually read this text.
To most contemporary ears, this is ho, hum  - a dull introduction
            which may have mattered in ancient times but doesn’t mean much to us.
It would make more sense to us if the gospel just began with the words,
            “the birth of Jesus happened this way . . . “
So, that’s what our lectionary does.
 
But Matthew is very careful in the way he begins his gospel.
For Matthew, these seventeen verses of “was the father of’s”
            is crucial to what he wants his readers to know about Jesus.
 
First, and most importantly,
            these verses assure readers that Joseph is in the line of King David.
This is vital, because the people of Israel know that the Messiah
            will be a descendant of David.
Matthew wants to make sure the people know that Jesus is the fulfillment of the Messianic promises.
 
So one important thing the story we read today says is that Joseph is Jesus’ father.
It was the role of the father to name a child,
            so when the angel tells Joseph to name the baby Jesus,
            he is not just giving the baby a name,
                        but also telling Joseph to take the baby as his son.
By marrying Mary and naming the baby, Jospeh will become the baby’s rightful father – making Jesus a descendant of the house of David, as promised.
 
But there is much more going on in this first chapter of Matthew.
Most of the genealogy is patrilineal – the father of, the father of, the father of.
But a few times, Matthew throws in a mother.
And who are these mothers?
There are five women in the genealogy:
            Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, the wife of Uriah, and Mary
All but Mary are Gentiles.
All are involved in some sort of scandal, or behavior inappropriate for a woman.
Yet these are the women Matthew chooses to name.
Perhaps they are intended to place Mary in like company;
            this is not the only time God has used unlikely women to fulfill God’s plan.
Almost certainly they are also intended to make the point that it is not a new idea        for God to include Gentiles in God’s plan of salvation.
God has always intended for the blessing and salvation of Gentiles,
            as well as Israelites.
And, God has always used regular people –
            some models of faithfulness and religious purity,
            some well outside both boundaries –
to fulfill God’s will and do good for God’s people.
 
 
Which brings us back to Joseph.
Joseph is a faithful Jew, and, as the story takes pains to point out,            
             a kind and righteous man.
And Joseph is caught up in a scandal.
His betrothed is pregnant – and he knows he is not the father.
He wants to do the right thing –
            to do what is required by law, but to do it as gently and kindly as possible.
Imagine what a difficult time this is for him.
Everything he expected for his life has been turned upside down.
He has been shamed by the woman he plans to marry –
            his pride, his affection, his certainty for his future, have all been hurt.
 
Then an angel comes.
As always, the angel says “Do not be afraid” - 
            yet in this instance, it is not “do not be afraid of me,”
                        but “do not be afraid to go forward into your future.”
You find yourself in a place of uncertainty, with everything turned upside down.
But do not be afraid.
God is with you – and God has a part in all this – and you do, too.
The angel tells Joseph to be the father of this baby –
            this baby who is of the Holy Spirit
 
During the season of Advent, we always talk about Mary.
We always talk about Mary’s yes to God,
            Mary’s faith, Mary’s trust.
Joseph stays quietly in the background, even in the Christmas story –
            traveling with his pregnant wife, caring for wife and baby in a stable –
            but we never hear a word from him.
Today, we see Joseph’s Yes as well.
He doesn’t speak, but we see what he does –
            which is trust God,
            even when the message from the angel flies in the face of all propriety
                        and perhaps his own heart.
He does what the angel asks – taking his place by Mary’s side,
            to raise a child who is “God with us,” and will save his people from their sins.
 
At its core, this story is about trust.
Joseph trusts God.
Mary trusts God.
And Matthew wants his readers to trust God as well.
He wants us to know that God has made promises to God’s people,
            and God has kept those promises.
God is faithful and steadfast in God’s love for people,
            and always works to reconcile people to himself.
And God counts on ordinary, unlikely people –
            people a bit like us -          
            to carry out God’s plans.
 
God invites us to trust -
Not just when things go well, and life is following our plans,
            or at least looks something like our expectations of what life should look like
but even when it all topples and we find ourselves lost,
            caught in scandal,
            stuck in fear or despair.
Those are the times we can trust God –
            as Abraham and Sarah, Ruth and Tamar, Mary and Joseph,
            all trusted God in the middle of crazy, scary places.
 
 
Maybe this Advent finds you in a place where life is going along pretty much as expected, and you are filled with contentment.
And that is wonderful, and a reason to give thanks.
I hope we all have those periods in our lives when all is well.
But I know we all have the other kinds of times –
            when we are scared, hurt, confused, lost, stuck –
            and that is where today’s story meets us.
In the company of God’s chosen people, scared and confused,
            but following anyway,
            trusting in God’s love and goodness and constant faithfulness.
We can trust, because we prepare to welcome “Emmanuel”
            - God with us – and we know Emmanuel will save even us.
Thanks be to God.
Amen
 

​Our Lady of Guadalupe
11 December 2016
Pastor Joe Britton
St. Michael’s Church
 
“The Rich Have Been Sent Empty Away”
 
My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my savior. (Luke 1)
 
            If you ask me, Mary does not deserve her reputation. As the mother of Jesus, she is usually regarded as a humble, demurring  young woman who plays a rather passive role in God’s big idea: meek, mild, and unobtrusive.
 
            But the more I read and pray upon her story, the more she emerges out of that pious haze with which she has been surrounded, to take her place as a radical and even subversive actor in advancing God’s plan of mercy and compassion.
 
        Think, for instance, of the Song of Mary (the Magnificat). This is a song which she sings in response to her cousin Elizabeth’s naming her as blessed among women (a text that we have been using here during Advent to affirm our own faith). “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my savior.” Mary’s words are no submissive acquiescence to an external power and authority, but rather they are Mary’s invocation of the great prophet Isaiah, who repeatedly denounced the pride and arrogance that so afflicts us human beings, saying that “[Our] haughtiness shall be humbled, and the pride of humanity brought low” (Is. 2:17)
 
          By invoking Isaiah in her own words, Mary aligns herself with this great prophetic tradition, and so we might go far as to say that she becomes one with the prophets—even one of the prophets—in her resistance to human arrogance in the face of God’s demands for justice. By so doing, she puts herself squarely on the side of the poor and marginalized, for as she sings in her song, God has “put down the mighty from their thrones … and sent the rich empty away”—whereas for the hungry, God “has filled them with good things, and those of low degree have been exalted.”
 
            Which brings me to my point: in these days when we are all concerned on one hand that there is so much hatred, and violence, and untruth at play in our society, and on the other hand so little empathy, restraint, and honesty—in these days, communities of faith such as ours have a critical role to play in providing an alternative vision of what is valuable and important in human life. We have the challenge to be a community in which the virtues of compassion, understanding, care and concern are cultivated, and where they are experienced as a form of moral and spiritual resistance to what eats away at our sense of well-being, both as individuals and as a society.
 
We have, in other words, to become like Mary herself: to align ourselves with the prophets’ message, brought to fulfillment in Christ, that God’s righteous compassion and merciful justice are the foundations of what it means to be human. And let me hasten to say that a commitment to such a way of life is neither a liberal idea nor a conservative idea: it is merely a lived response to the heart of the gospel.
 
            Now, if I’m right that Mary has a much more subversive nature than her reputation gives her credit for, then it is all the more evident in the tradition of Our Lady of Guadalupe, whom we celebrate today. Think of how that story unfolds: the young Indian campesino Juan Diego is on his way early one morning, going “in search of the things of God”(as the story is told), just as night begins to turn to dawn. The timing, of course, is significant, for in native culture the dawn is always the moment of creation, the sign of God’s gift of a new day.
 
            And then, in an apparition not unlike the angel Gabriel’s appearance to Mary, Mary herself stands before Juan, inviting his participation in making possible another manifestation of God’s identification with humanity—in this case the building of a shelter, a hermitage, a hospice (the Spanish word is a “casita sagrada,” or holy house), where the peoples displaced by the conquest will be able to turn to her for “her love, compassion, help and protection” (as she says), a place where their “laments can be heard and their miseries and sorrows remedied.”
 
            It’s interesting to think, that after all the prayers of the Spanish conquistadors and their accompanying missionaries that God would bless and bring success to their efforts, that in the story of the Guadalupana the answer should come in the form of Mary identifying herself not with the Spanish wealth and power, but with the humility and need of the native people who have been subjugated through it. But then, there is nothing too surprising in that, is there? It is merely another manifestation of that subversive side of Mary that she first exhibited in the Magnificat: the mighty are put down, and the humble lifted up, and all that is the work of God.
 
          And of course, from this intimate encounter between Mary the Mother of God, and the campesino Juan Diego, has come one of the most treasured spiritual traditions in all the Americas: a story that is a source of protection and sustenance to which countless millions have turned for succor and support. Just think of how ubiquitous are the images of Our Lady of Guadalupe that surround us here in New Mexico, including the retablo that is before you here in church, or our own parish courtyard, where a tile image of her quietly presides over the open space.
 
            But, you may ask, why are we as a Protestant, Episcopal, Anglican church celebrating Guadalupe when she is not really a part of our tradition at all? Isn’t that a bit artificial, or even clichéd?
 
          Well, yes it is true that the tradition of Our Lady of Guadalupe is most strongly associated with the Roman Catholic Church, and especially its Native and Hispanic members. But that is why it becomes all the more significant for us to enter into and embrace her story, because it is one way in which we fulfill our own Christian mission to be a place of empathy and understanding, reaching across cultural boundaries that in our nation’s history have so often been vigorously defended and encouraged. By celebrating Guadalupe, we are also embracing what she calls out attention to: God’s special care and concern for the poor and forgotten.
 
          Today, in other words, is both an act of resistance and of affirmation: resistance to arrogance, to division, to animosity, and to prejudice; and affirmation of community, of common values, of truth, and of compassion. By embracing a tradition that is not necessarily our own, but one which is of immense importance to many of our neighbors in the community, we are making a statement. We are one, with one another, in and through Mary, and her son Jesus Christ.
 
         You may know that over in the Los Griegos neighborhood where I live, the local Catholic parish is dedicated to Our Lady of Guadalupe. Outside the church, on the far side of the parking lot, there is small shrine that includes a statue of Juan Diego, holding the cloak on which her image was miraculously imprinted.
 
          I am struck, when I take a walk over that way with my dog Ellie, how often someone has stopped by the shrine to pray. Indeed the shrine is always filled with lighted candles, representing the particular intention of some previous visitor.
 
          If no one is there, I sometimes stop to spend a few minutes reading the written prayers that are left behind in a spiral notebook. One reads there of families caught in a web of abusive relationships, of people struggling with addictions of one sort or another, of terrible illnesses and broken hearts. And of course there are also prayers of thanksgiving: for the birth of a child, for the safe return of a soldier from war, or for a college degree proudly earned.
 
         I hear in those prayers an evocative echo of what Mary told Juan Diego early that morning back in 1531, when she expressed her desire to give to all people “my love, my compassion, my help, and my protection, because I am your merciful mother and the mother of all nations.” Whatever you may yourself make of the Guadalupe story, perhaps you can hear in it that it is at the very least entirely consonant with that radical, subversive loyalty to all those in need that Mary first expressed in her Magnificat. It is in her spirit, and with a sense of awe and respect for her witness, that we honor her and our neighbors today as we together sing, “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.” Amen.  
 
 
  © Joseph Britton, 2016