Well, how timely. It’s … a debate! And, one party — the one currently in power — is questioning the other party’s — the relatively-new guy’s — qualifications and credentials.

Sounds familiar!

But this morning, it’s not our sparring presidential candidates Barack Obama and John McCain.

This morning, it’s Jesus Vs. the religious establishment, it’s Jesus Vs. the professionally religious, it’s Jesus Vs. institutional religion.

If we back up to the beginning of ch. 21 in Matthew’s gospel, we see why the chief priests and the spiritual elders in Jerusalem were nervous about Jesus and why they became so confrontational with him, questioning his qualifications.

The context is Monday in the last week of Jesus’ life. The day before had been his triumphal entry into the city of Jerusalem, riding in a donkey, with palm branches and blankets and garments strewn in the road before him. Palm Sunday. The week of Jesus’ passion — his suffering — and death.

What we often forget about Palm Sunday was that it wasn’t just the donkey ride and the waving palm branches that happened that day. When Jesus enters the city of Jerusalem amid all those cries of “Hosanna to the Son of David” and being hailed as the king of the Jews, on that very same day he heads straight to the temple, goes inside, and drives out all who were selling and buying within the temple walls, overturning the tables of the money changers and those were were selling doves for sacrificing.

And if that wasn’t enough to raise some serious eyebrows on Temple Street, Jesus also performs a host of healings — inside the temple — of unclean people, people who should not even have been inside the temple walls to begin with, because of their physical defects which, according to their religious traditions, made them ceremonially-defiled: too unclean to be within the confines of the temple’s sacred spaces, and too unfit to be that near to God and the chief priests and elders.

So, it’s a set-up were rather familiar with.

The “old guard” vs. the one perceived or portrayed as a radical.

The “establishment” vs. an agent of change.

The familiar vs. the fresh new face.

And, not unlike Friday night’s debate, this debate, too, is a toss-up. One could argue that either side was the winner. Both sides got in their digs and each made the other out to look unqualified.

But quite unlike Friday night’s debate, neither side — like Jesus — was able to question their opponent into silence. Jesus somehow manages, by his authoritative line of questioning, to undermine the authority of the professionally-religious who are more concerned about covering their actions and preserving their reputations, and here’s where it gets personal: it’s Jesus silencing the clergy (I know, I know, an answer to every layperson’s prayers!); it’s Jesus silencing the spokespersons for the mainline, mainstream religious tradition; it’s Jesus silencing the professionally-spiritual. Ouch.

Well, there’s another whole sermon in there somewhere for those of us who stand in pulpits and preach for a living. But today, Jesus moves on to a story that makes his point accessible to all of us — lay and clergy alike — all who continue in the way of this one who rode triumphantly into Jerusalem on Sunday, drove out the moneychangers and stumped the clergy on Monday, had supper with his friends & washed their on Thursday, and was dead before rush hour on Friday afternoon.

Jesus goes on to ask a parable-like question about a man with two sons, one whose “No” really means “Yes,” and the other whose “Yes” really means “No.” Their father tells them both to “go and work in the vineyard today.” Both are right in their own way of being right: one gives the right answer, and one does the right thing. Both sons begin as sons, act as sons, and remain as sons; neither is cast from the family. The father remains the father of both sons, but one is revealed to be doing the will of the father, while the other one only has intentions to do so, or at least says he does.

This time even the clergy, even the professionally-religious get it, but Jesus goes on to tell them that people who they consider lower on the spiritual food chain – namely, tax collectors and prostitutes — moral outsiders and the ritually-unclean — will enter into the reign of God ahead of them because “those people” got it (they understood it, and lived it) first. They might have said “No” at first to the message of John the Baptizer, but they lived out a “Yes.”

Our Gospel texts both today and last weeks take us into the vineyard with Jesus, who taught us in last week’s parable that “the first shall be last and the last first.” The ones who got invited to labor in the vineyard at 5:00 got paid the same amount as those who got hired at the break of day.

Today, Jesus drives home the point further. Last week it was about Jesus’ radical economy of grace no matter how long you’ve walked with him. This week Jesus’ radical economy of grace tips the cart on our notions of who is included in the invitation to the vineyard. The obedient child and the disobedient child. The religious professionals and those who would just as soon have nothing to do with institutional religiosity.

But what Jesus is also teaching us this morning is about the difference between being religious and being obedient. To be religious is to “say the right thing.” But to be obedient is to “do the right thing.”

We didn’t use these particular words at the beginning of the service, but so often when we pray the opening prayer of confession we ask forgiveness for “things we have done, and things we have left undone.” In other words, for times when we have been merely religious and not obedient; for times when we have said “Yes,” but really meant “No way”; for times we have been too much in the “say the right thing” mode rather than the “do the right thing” mode; for times when we have been the predictably-spiritual rather than bold and free spirits who, like tax collectors and prostitutes, know how great is their need of God.

Sisters and brothers, to us, to all of us, and to them, to all of them, comes the gracious invitation to the vineyard. There the wine will be poured, and there the bread will be shared to strengthen one and all for the work of serving in the vineyard.

And so that there may be NO DEBATE about who gets the credit for the vineyard work, in the words of the apostle Paul in our second reading this morning, “For it is GOD who is AT WORK IN YOU, enabling you both to will and to work for God’s good pleasure.”

Amen

“Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?” This is the question the vineyard landowner asks the workers who had been hired at daybreak for the usual daily wage. They are miffed, they are ticked, they are … well … you know what they are.

What kind of a business owner is this? Doesn’t he know the basics of incentive and reward? Time plus effort equals production, and production equals pay! The hardest workers who were hired first and who have been hanging around all day deserve to be paid first and most.

The workers hired at daybreak had expectations. They felt entitled to more than those who joined them at 5 PM and only worked one hour. So the owner of the vineyard names their “stuff,” and calls them on their complaining.

Yes, everyone gets paid the same. Everyone gets paid the usual daily wage for work in the vineyard. But “am I now allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?”

And we know what the answer is: Yes, we are envious. Yes, we are ticked off. Yes, we think we have more coming to us.

I think we get what Jesus is trying to teach us in this morning’s little story about how it is with God, how life IS in the reign of God, and we don’t like it one bit.

We who consider ourselves cradle Christians — born, baptized, nurtured in faith, communed, confirmed, and consistently in the courts of the Lord’s house — we think we have a little more coming our way, we think we have earned ourselves a little extra credit “upstairs”, we think we’re all that and a bowl of chips and that God ought to take special notice of us.

Well, God takes special notice of US all right, even as God takes special notice of the one who just pulled in, the one who’s gotten overlooked and passed-up-on all along: the outsiders, the forgotten, the lonely, those whom no else wants (let alone notices), we’re all well within God’s gracious purview, we’re all within God’s caring gaze, we’re all upon God’s loving heart.

But that’s not fair, that’s too generous, and we don’t like it one bit.

“And when (those hired first) received (their daily wage), they grumbled against the landowner, saying “These last worked only one hour, and (here it comes!) you have made them equal to US who have borne the burden…..(borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat).”

We who think we have borne the burden – the burden of keeping the church running, the burden of doing all the work around here, the burden of our baptismal calling to “bear God’s creative and redeeming word to all the world,” find it just a little annoying that God would be just as generous, just as loving, just as forgiving, just as merciful to those who have not borne the burden as much as WE have.

It reminds me of the dining room hostess who called out the name of the perturbed person who had been waiting by themselves for their own table: “Bitter, party of one!”

Sounds like Jonah in this morning’s first reading. “Bitter, party of one, Jonah” is angry that God has changed God’s mind about wiping out the city of Nineveh. Since the people had turned from their evil, God turned from God’s intentions to bring punishment upon them, and that really ticked Jonah off. Jonah is upset with God for deciding to be “gracious, merciful, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love, and READY TO RELENT FROM PUNISHING.” Jonah would rather see a vengeful God, a God who gives people what they deserve, a God who — like Santie Claus — is “makin’ a list, checkin’ it twice, who’s gonna find out who’s naughty or nice” and then send the naughty people straight to H-E-double toothpick.

The words of the prayer of the day remind us that God shows perpetual lovingkindness, grants us his merciful — not vengeful — judgment, and trains us to “embody the generosity” of God’s Son, Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord.

Embodying the generosity of God in Jesus is always going to be a challenge for us, because we can never do it as well with each other as God does with us. But that’s no excuse for not trying and failing, trying and failing, and trying again and again until we get better at it.

Our hymn of the day, the song we are about to sing, isn’t in the hymnal. It was proposed to be included in the our new worship book, but didn’t make the cut past the “Renewing Worship” songbook, and I’m told by reliable sources that it was felt that it went a little too far in its depiction of the gracious breadth and depth of God’s welcoming embrace of all in Jesus Christ. “Too inclusive, too extravagant, & too universal” was the charge. They were right, and that’s exactly the point.

When we heard the promise of God’s forgiveness as we gathered in worship, the words were not for some, they were for all — whether you have spent a lifetime confessing your sins or asked forgiveness for the very first time.

When you come to the table a few minutes from now to receive a piece of bread and a sip of wine, the distribution is not selective. It is for all who come, with hands outstretched, young and old, deeply contrite or half-sorry, those who come hand-in-hand with their best friend Jesus and those who are barely on speaking terms with him.

Like the owner of the vineyard, God is not worried about how much and how long and how hard you’ve worked. God just wants you in the vineyard and at the table.

There to receive not what you’re owed, not what you deserve, not what you’ve got coming, but what God — in Christ Jesus — wants to give you freely.
This is God’s doing, and like it or not, we’re all invited to God’s ever-widening table of mercy and grace. May we welcome everyone who joins us at the table, even as we have been so generously and extravagantly welcomed.

Amen.

Jesus is talking about tough love in this morning’s Gospel text. This isn’t easy listening; this isn’t light fare; this isn’t Candyland for Christian living. Rather, this is hardcore, honest, cut-the-bull-and-go-straight-to-the-source authentic “community relations.” This is Jesus’ policy position on conflict in the church. In St. Matthew’s Gospel, the word “church” only appears in two texts: the first was a few weeks ago as we hear the account of Peter’s confession of Jesus to be “the Messiah, the son of the living God.” Jesus was so impressed that Peter had gotten it right that he said to him, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it.” Upon that bedrock confession of Jesus as “Messiah” and “son of the living God,” Jesus promises Peter he will build his church. This is the very first mention of church, EKKLESIA in the Greek, literally, “ones who are called out,” called out from the world to be the body of Christ in the world.

Now, the only other time the word “church” or EKKLESIA is mentioned in St. Matthew, is here, where Jesus is saying to the disciples “If another member of the church sins against you, go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone…”

So, as far as St. Matthew’s gospel goes, these are the two things about the church, about EKKLESIA, we must know: the gates of Hades will not prevail against it and its confession of Jesus to be the son of the living God, AND its members will, in fact and in deed, sin against each other. Reality check. From the get-go and from Jesus’ own mouth, via the lens of St. Matthew’s perspective of course, these are the two truths about the church: the first one a super-human characteristic (which is to say, not even the gates of hell shall be able to prevail against its confession of Jesus) and the second a verrrrry human and painfully-flawed characteristic (that is, members of it will inevitably and most certainly prevail against one another – even though the gates of hell shall not prevail against the church itself!).

Now of course, we know this is not true of St. Paul’s Church! Right now. As one of our diligent and observant congregation council members noted some months ago at a council meeting, “St. Paul’s seems to be a bicker-free zone.” On second thought, maybe he was just referring to the actual council! But, there has been conflict in this congregation in the past, and, I imagine, there very well could be in the future, even as it is so in other congregations and even as it is so in our denomination the ELCA, and in all the other sects of Christianity that are in existence today.

The church is both about being that indestructible body-of-Christ-presence in the world that confesses the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, while at the same time having the capacity within its own walls to be self-destructive as an institution and as individuals with one another. If you have stuck around any congregation long enough, you know this to be true while at the same time bemoaning the human condition – also known as “sin” – that causes it to be so.

But this Gospel text is about tough love. It’s “tough,” in that it acknowledges that within the church we have the all-too-cavalier capacity to sin against one another, as we pray in the prayer of confession “in thought, word, and deed.” But it’s about love in that this text calls us to actually DO what love requires: to enter into the complicated engagement of human beings with one another and to work it out in the spirit of love.

Dorothy Day, the co-founder of the Catholic Worker movement, referred to this kind of complicated engagement with each other as “radical hospitality.” She often quoted the chapter from Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov titled “A Lady of Little Faith,” in which an elderly priest named Father Zosima exhorts a wealthy woman to “active love” as a remedy for her doubts. “Strive to love your neighbor actively and inde-fatigably. In as far as you advance in love you will grow surer of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul.”

When the wealthy woman confesses her sentimental dreams of a life of service to the poor and her fear of their ingratitude, Zosima –while remaining kind – delivers a scathing critique of charity, which is chiefly about controlling and defining the one who is in need. “I am sorry I can say nothing more consoling to you,” Father Zosima concludes, “for love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams.”

Today, Jesus calls us to this harsh and dreadful “love in action” with one another. It’s putting the words of St. Paul from the second reading into force in a personal way: “Owe no one anything, except to love one another,” Paul writes, “for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law. Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law.”

We live in a time when the dangerously-ubiquitous word “Whatever” threatens to freeze our hearts and block the path of reconciliation between one another. So often in our hurt and in our pride we choose silent indignation over Jesus’ pro-active policy to complicated, messy, and loving engagement with each other” until we can finally reach that interpersonal radical hospitality that reflects the grace of God with each of us.

To do it, we’re going to have to “put on the armor of light” as St. Paul writes, and claim the promise of Jesus that conclude this morning’s gospel text: “For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.”

It’s about tough, tenacious love and radical hospitality: from the waters of the font that welcome each one to the eternal embrace of God to the bread and wine of the Lord’s table which feeds every hungry and thirsty sinner and welcomes us again and again to the feast of love. The water, the bread, the wine: this is our armor of light, equipping us to love one another fiercely, and strengthening us to stretch beyond our own conflicts and heal the broken world.

Amen.

Amen

Poor Peter. He was doing so well last week, confessing Jesus to be the Messiah, the son of the living God, and all that. So well, in fact, that Jesus told him that upon the rock of that bold confession the whole church would be built and against which the very gates of Hades could not and would not prevail. Well, not so fast, not so fast.

Today’s Gospel, which follows immediately after the verses from last Sunday’s, paints a picture of eager Peter which looks an awful lot like the same guy who, in the Gospel text a few weeks ago, started walking on water toward Jesus and then, realizing what he was doing, started to sink. It’s sort of like watching a beginning water-skier from the perspective of the speedboat: “Yepp, yepp, he’s up, he’s up! Oh. No, no. He’s not. He’s down. Pull back around.”

Today Peter goes from being hailed as the one whose confession not even hell could conquer, to a fearful advisor who gets put in his place by his boss, a major demotion, in fact, to Satan status.

For when Peter realizes what Jesus is saying: that he must go to Jerusalem, and undergo great suffering at the hands of the institutionally-religious, and be killed, he instantly begins attempting to set Jesus straight. St. Matthew writes that “Peter took Jesus aside and began to rebuke him, saying “God forbid it Lord! This must never happen to you!”

But you see, there was this one little oversight on Peter’s part. He heard the part about going to Jerusalem. He heard the part about undergoing great suffering. And probably most of all he heard the part about being killed. But the part his ears missed were those seven last words, “and on the third day be raised.”
Peter got distracted by the messy stuff: Jerusalem, suffering, the elders, chief priests, and scribes, the killing. It was as if those seven last words hadn’t even been spoken. Did someone say “and on the third day be raised?” St. Matthew doesn’t come right out and say it, but I do think our Lord Jesus pretty much goes off on Peter, whose attempts to negate the necessity of all these things elicit this visceral response from Jesus: “Get behind me, you Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things, but on human things.”

Which, if we are being honest with ourselves, is where we can all probably enter the story without much coercing.

In the words of the prophet Jeremiah as the first reading begins: “O Lord, you know.”

In other words, it’s of no surprise to Jesus that Peter’s confession is the rock on which the church is built on one day, and on the next Peter’s fear and cowardice are a stumbling block. From “built on a rock” to “stumble on a block” in less time than it takes to say, “God forbid it, Lord.”

“O Lord, you know.”

Now there’s a confession for you. Centuries before Peter came along, the prophet Jeremiah spells it out with his simple prayer. We can’t hide. We can’t escape. Try as we might, we are so busted. For, the indictment on Peter is the no different than ours: “you are setting your mind not on divine things, but on human things.”

The problem is: we’re human. We have human minds and our minds naturally turn toward human things.

I’m afraid Jesus words are going to fall flat on the ears of the humans who are the victims of Hurricane Gustav which continues to gain frightening strength in the Caribbean as it moves into the Gulf of Mexico and closer and closer inland. Tell that to the already-battered people in the Caribbean: Jamaica, Haiti, the Dominican Republic, and Cuba. “You are setting your minds not on divine things, but on human things.” Try that one on those in the Gulf Coast states who are, once again, bracing themselves and evacuating their newly-built homes in the wake of Katrina just 3 years ago.

Today, with the weeping prophet Jeremiah, we cry out with our minds directed toward very human things, with our minds burdened by the painfully-human suffering in the world and upon our sisters and brothers in harm’s way: “O Lord, you know.” With his mind set on human things, Jeremiah point blank asks the Lord, “Why is my pain unceasing, my wound incurable, refusing to be healed?” The words of the prophet echo in the human cries we hear this morning from Caribbean to the Gulf Coast, from Iraq to Afghanistan, from the Gaza Strip to quaking China, from flooding India to besieged Georgia.

To those of us who find that “setting our minds on human things” is about all we can do these days, St. Paul’s words in our second reading help point us toward the divine amid our human struggles: “Rejoice in hope,” writes the apostle, “be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer…Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep…(and) Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

Like Peter, in our humanity we too can become distracted with the human details: going to Jerusalem, undergoing suffering, being killed. But Jesus would have us be mindful today of the truth of the end of his story (and ours): the part that Peter overlooked, the part that, in our human suffering, we tend to forget because we get hung up on going to Jerusalem, we get sidetracked with suffering at the hands of evil, and distracted by all that would put us to death: Jesus reminds us those seven last words “and on the third day be raised.”

19 years ago this summer, when I was ordained into the ministry of Word & Sacrament, the pastor of my home church penned these words for me which I’ve spent the last 19 years both contemplating and being haunted by:

He asks not for our success nor our power…

Jesus, the one who must go to Jerusalem, undergo great suffering, be killed, and on the third day rise again, invites us to take the journey with him.

With Peter, some days we will shine with our minds set on divine things. While on others, perhaps like today, not so much.

“O Lord, you know.”

Amen.

Sitting at a wedding banquet in the Courtyard Marriott last evening, I looked around the room to see all the guests of Julie and Craig. There were all the usual suspects at a wedding banquet. There was the wedding party bedecked in their festive garb: bride beautiful Julie (beloved soprano in our choir, she’s not here this morning), Craig the groom whose buttons were busting with pride in his bride, the beaming attendants, the loving parents of the couple, Julie’s father — a retired Lutheran pastor — now confined to a wheelchair but able at long last to accompany his buoyant and elegant daughter down this aisle earlier in the evening. There were coworkers and childhood friends. The entire St. Paul’s Choir was there, having kissed these rafters with their prayerful anthem during the marriage liturgy. There was the DJ who seemed to swallow his microphone and sounded more like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Guests galore. Some dancing, twisting and shouting, out on the dance floor. This morning it feels like I might have twisted the wrong way.

The dinner arrived, servers scurrying back and forth from the kitchen with plates of beef, chicken, and the pasta primavera for the non-carnivores among us. The champagne glasses were filled for toasting, wine glasses were refilled once — maybe twice — and the joy and gladness of the wedding feast was palpable.

We were all in our places, doing what invited guests do at a wedding banquet. We were celebrating. We were all gussied up, looking fine and festive — yes, even the Lutherans. We were feasting — savoring the food and drink. We were relishing the moment of joy for Julie & Craig, who have found in each other a love and a life.

I thought of this morning’s text (well, it was Saturday night after all). What if none of the invited had RSVP’d favorably, like in the parable Jesus told the disciples? What if everyone had checked “regrets?” Worse yet, what if everyone, refusing the invitation, didn’t even bother to send the RSVP note back at all? It’s hard to imagine. How hurtful to hear the lame excuses as phone calls would be made to follow-up with the guest list. “Sorry, I have to work that weekend.” –or- “Sorry, Wall Street is a shambles, and I’m a wreck.” -or- “Sorry, I’m all tied-up-in-knots over this election.” –or- “Sorry, gas prices…you know…”

One layer of this parable Jesus tells is getting at the religious leaders of the day for rejecting the message of the prophets (and the prophets themselves) who were preparing the people to receive the Promised One, the Messiah. St. Matthew wrote his gospel following the first Jewish revolt against Rome and the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem in 70 CE, and so he is interpreting those current events in light of Jesus’ teachings.

Another layer of reality is the increasing numbers of Gentiles — those who were not Jewish — who were responding favorably to the message of Jesus, the one who had been crucified and risen from the dead. The new message being preached was that salvation wasn’t only just for the people of Israel anymore, as was the teaching of the religious establishment, but was for everyone. Not just for those living by the laws prescribed by Moses, but also for those who had nothing to do with Moses and all those rules and regs.

That message was rocking St. Matthew’s world, and that radical message of who is invited to the wedding banquet, who is invited to the feast of God’s eternal reign, who is welcome at the celebration of cosmic salvation, is still rocking the religious establishment and their various institutions up to this present moment. Christian denominations and religious institutions of every tradition continue to debate who are invited, who are chosen, and who are included.

These days, we are seeing in excruciating ways how our national political discourse is also divided by those who find other-ness threatening: Muslims, Arabs, persons of any color other than white, immigrant people, people who find love in another of the same gender, refugees, people who don’t believe or live the same way you do, people whose patriotism is expressed in ways different from our own.

“Go therefore into the main streets, and invite everyone you find to the wedding banquet,” said the king to his slaves. And St. Matthew continues, “Those slaves went out into the streets and gathered all whom they found, both good and bad; so the wedding hall was filled with guests.”

That “good and bad” part really gets under our skin. Because we all just want the good ones to be invited. People like us, people who think the way we do, people who agree with our point of view. Not those others. Not those ones. Just the good ones.

If Jesus’ parable gets under your skin this morning, then mission accomplished. If Jesus’ picture of the kingdom of heaven disturbs you, makes you wonder, offends, scandalizes, trips you up, then he gets his point across with this parable.

And just to push it one bit further, there is this fellow who comes into the banquet hall but doesn’t bother to take the lovely wedding garment that has been provided for those who have just been pulled-in off the streets. This is a wedding banquet after all, and it’s for the prince, so the king — being the ever-gracious host who thinks of everything — provides elegant attire for those who might not otherwise have been dressed and ready for the occasion. For some reason, this fellow refuses the robe. A gracious invitation, a lovely banquet hall, a festive occasion, the fatted calf on the barby, enough wine for multiple glasses-full, but this one wouldn’t — or didn’t — put on the robe, and was unable to give a reason.

It might be likened to one of these beautiful quilts being given to someone who is shivering cold and feeling alone and uncared for. Here is warmth, here is a blanket, here is love and compassion — stitched just for you. But the one to whom it is freely given, and for whom it has been graciously prepared, refuses it in all its beauty and simply will not wrap it around themselves. And so, by refusing to wrap themselves up, they will be left out in the cold — a blanket in their hands, ready to warm them when they are ready to snuggle into its softness, into its welcoming embrace, into the gift that is in their very hands.

St. Paul’s words from the 2nd reading describe what the gift of that wedding robe looks like: “Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near.”

Sisters and brothers, may we all be found wearing the robe of rejoicing as we too are pulled off the streets, as we too are beckoned in from the highways and by-ways and freeways of life, as we too are invited to the wedding feast.

May we be found wearing the robe of rejoicing that we have been invited and chosen, and so has our neighbor.

In the words of the prophet Isaiah, “Let us be glad and rejoice in God’s salvation.”

Come to the wedding banquet. The feast is ready to begin and there is plenty at this table for all. Plenty of grace, plenty of forgiveness, and plenty of love to go around.

Amen.

Today we gather to remember, to rejoice, and to imagine. It is All Saints Sunday, and on this holy day it is these three primary actions that we do together, in community, that matter. To remember, to rejoice, and to imagine.

The element of remembering is crucial. The psalmist sums it up this morning, “I will bless the Lord at all times, the praise of God shall ever be in my mouth.” Remembering God in times of pain and sorrow, in times of struggle and doubt, as well as in times of joy and celebration: this is the challenge of this day as we call to mind the loved ones from among us who have departed this life and with whom we have been separated. We remember them, and we remember what — and Who — keeps us connected with them.

In three brief verses, today’s second reading invites us to remember: “See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God; and that is what we are. Beloved, we are God’s children now…”

Remembering our primary identity as God’s beloved children, as those who are in a living relationship with a God who loves us is the first action of All Saints Sunday. Washed in the waters of holy baptism and blanketed in the forgiveness and grace of God in Jesus Christ, we are sainted, literally “set apart,” — set apart to be the people of God who reflect with our imperfect lives the perfect love of God in Christ.

The second primary action of this day is to rejoice. In the words of St. Paul to the ancient church in Philippi, “Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say, ‘Rejoice!’” And in today’s Gospel we hear, “Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”

The kind of rejoicing we are called to enact this day in community is not the “happy, clappy” variety. Rather, it is an undergirding confidence and hope–filled assurance that though we may mourn now, we shall soon be comforted. Though our spirits may be impoverished now, the reign of God will soon come near and enliven us again. Though we are hungering and thirsting for something more now, we will soon be filled and fulfilled. Though we may be persecuted now, for standing up for justice, truth, and love, the dominion of God will be ours.

The rejoicing to which we are invited this day is reflected in the psalmist’s words, “Look upon the Lord and be radiant, and let not your faces be ashamed. I called in my affliction and the Lord heard me and saved me from all my troubles.”

Finally, the third primary action of this day is to engage our imaginations, to let God so enliven us with the holy and creative Spirit that we can hear the words of the first reading from Revelation and allow the Spirit to translate these words into a vivid picture in our mind’s eye — a picture of the things yet to be for us and a picture of things already so for those whom we remember this day.

“After this I looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands. They cried out in a loud voice, saying ‘Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!’ And all the angels stood around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures, and they fell on their faces and worshipped God, singing ‘Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God forever and ever! Amen.’”

With imaginations animated by the Spirit and the Word, we too are caught up in wonder of this mystery: that one day we shall also gather with our beloved departed, before the throne of God, and worship God day and night within God’s temple, and we will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike us, nor any scorching heat; for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be our shepherd, and will guide us to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from our eyes.”

This heavenly vision revealed to St. John is the reality for those who have gone before us, and it is our blessed hope as our imaginations are fueled by on this day of remembering and rejoicing in the communion of saints.

In just a few moments, we will as a community of faith “set apart,” or sanctify this piano as well as these brass altar flower vases. In doing so, we engage ourselves in these All Saints actions today: we remember those in whose memory they have been given; we rejoice in the gift; and we imagine the beauty of God’s presence of which they are a sign.

Like saints, they are “set apart” for God’s glory. This afternoon as the piano is played in the dedicatory concert, the instrument itself will not be applauded but rather the artist who plays it. Likewise, these vases will be the means by which the flowers will sit in silent praise, befitting the beauty of God’s holiness.

Today, with holy imagination, let us remember and rejoice that we too are such instruments and such vessels of grace, set apart and made holy to the praise of God’s glory.

Amen.

When asked what he would do if he discovered Christ would return and the world as we know it would end tomorrow, Martin Luther is quoted as replying, “Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.”

That may tell you something of the “green” Luther as well as something of the “left behind” Luther. His response reveals both his high regard for care of creation, and also his disregard of any fear, dread, or speculation when it came to contemplating the return of Christ on the last day.

“Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.”

In other words, life in this world is holy.

Despite all odds, hold on to the hope.

And, most of all, do something!

These themes run through all our texts this morning. In the first reading, the prophet Amos speaks on behalf of God as he speaks a stern word of reminder that there is a strong relationship — an interconnectedness — between our liturgical practices and our action on social issues — particularly on matters of injustice. God is saying to the ancient people of Israel and also to us: “I hate your festivals, and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies…take away from me the noise of your songs; I will not listen to the melody of your harps. BUT LET JUSTICE roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

What we do on Sunday mornings within these stained glass walls has everything to do with how we live our lives outside after the final benediction and the closing “thanks be to God.” According to Amos, it’s about letting justice — God’s ways of making all things right in the world — it’s about justice rolling down like waters, and righteousness — God’s ways of putting everything and everybody in good standing — it’s about righteousness rolling like an ever-flowing stream.

In other words, life in the world is holy.

Despite all odds, hold on to the hope.

And, most of all, do something!

As the prophet Amos channels the message, God seems to be most unhappy when we gather just to worship for the warm fuzzy of it all. God is unimpressed and beyond-being-slightly sickened when we raise the roof with our songs of praise but fail to let justice and righteousness flow from our lovely liturgies, from our holy hymns, and from our fervent prayers.

The cry of the psalmist in this morning’s psalm helps us imagine the person who is in need of justice, the type of individual or the kind of people who are in need of God’s righteousness and deliverance: those who are in any need, those who are experiencing any misfortune, those who are poor, and those over whom others are gloating and taking pleasure in their distress. Anyone for whom justice is being denied. Anyone for whom the world as it presently is, is not right. Those are the ones for whom God desires justice and righteousness to flow — through the people of God.

Yes, the psalmist too seems to be saying:

Life in the world is holy.
Despite all odds, hold on to the hope.
And, most of all, do something!

St. Paul’s words to the Christians in Thessalonica, in today’s 2nd reading, also announce that all life and all living in the world, even death and dying, is holy; that despite all odds, even though we may die, we have hope in Jesus: the one who died and rose again, and that by encouraging one another and that we can do something by reminding one another of the sure and certain coming of the Lord — perhaps not simply with our words but in lives that show forth justice and righteousness which are signs of a coming time when all the world will be ruled in justice, truth, and equity.

“Preach the Gospel at all times,” said St. Francis of Assisi, “and, if necessary, use words.” The act of preaching from pulpits might be best left for those of us on Sunday mornings who don’t have anything else to do and couldn’t do it even if there was. The real preaching happens when you push away from the Lord’s table and, having been nourished by the Word and Sacrament, you leave this place and return to the mess beyond this mass. You’ve had your “time out.” Now it’s back to “time in” the world: justice-seeking, peace-making, hungry-feeding, creation-caring, neighbor-loving, and others-serving — and in so doing, Christ-being.

“Thy kingdom come,” we will pray in a few moments as we do every Sunday just before we receive the bread and wine. And it does, week after week, as enact how it is in the kingdom of heaven: where all are invited to the table, where there is plenty of grace to go around, and where no one is denied.

The disconnect comes when the church prays “Thy kingdom come” but refuses to watch for it and recognize it when it does. Not many noticed when the kingdom came that night in Bethlehem. Only a few dusty shepherds and some farm animals.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus warns his followers not to be like the 5 foolish maidens who missed the bridegroom when he came, because they were unprepared and distracted. The 5 maidens who brought enough oil to keep their lamps illuminated through the dark night were the ones who finally able to greet the bridegroom when he came, and who went with him into the wedding banquet.

This morning, Jesus invites us to keep our lamps trimmed and burning, expectant and watchful for him in the faces of those who are in any need: in need of justice, in need of equity, in need of food, in need of shelter, in need of protection, in need of comfort, in need of health care, in need of advocacy, in need of civil rights.

Those who have marched in the streets of our California cities since election day certainly know that whatever the church may believe about itself, a clear and unclouded separation of church and state must continue as a guiding principle so that “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” as well as “liberty and justice for all” (and not just for some) can be a reality and not simply some imaginary America in the minds of 52% of the population.

Yes, all life in the world is holy. All life and all lives.

Despite all odds, hold on to the hope. Hope in a time to come when the One who is to come will make all things right.

And, most of all, do something! Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.

Feed the hungry. Love the unlovely. Fight injustice. Plant an apple tree.

And be the answer to someone else’s prayer, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done — on earth.”

Amen.

At first glance, a well-meaning and genuinely-enthusiastic preacher might very well see a text like this morning’s Gospel as the perfectly-opportune moment to preach a barn-burner of a stewardship sermon, especially if it happens to be (ahem) Commitment Sunday in the parish where she (or he!) is serving.

Licking her (or his) homiletical chops, the preacher could absolutely wax eloquent on the parable of the talents and finally make the finish line of a successful stewardship campaign by asking, “And what, my sisters and brothers, are you doing with the talents God has given you? Why here, I just happen to have this handy dandy ‘Time AND TALENT form’ for you to complete. Well, and here just happens to also be a PLEDGE form as well.”

As enticing as such a take on this text might be for a pastor eager to see a generous response on Commitment Sunday, it would — in fact and in deed — be an opportunistic interpretation of St, Matthew’s parable at best.

It’s certainly an ironic parable in terms of the timing of its appearance given the nature of banking and finance in the world economy today. And considering what we know about bailouts and financial misappropriation, we may hear the master’s advice to the third slave with no small degree of suspicion. “You ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and on my return I would have received what was my own with interest.” These days, maybe that third slave is looking rather wise and judicious. But we better not go down that path this morning.

One thing is certain. We get hung up on the word “talent” in this parable, because we think of it in terms of our English equivalent: talent as ability, skill, or performance capacity. The talents that are entrusted to these 3 slaves as their master is about to embark on a long journey are, in fact, enormous amounts of money. A “talent” was, in fact, a monetary unit representing an average of 15-20 years of work. So what we have in this parable is Jesus’ use of hyperbole, of extreme exaggeration, to get his point across.

To the first servant, the master gives 5 talents — the equivalent of nearly-100 years of salary. To the second servant, the master gives 2 talents — the equivalent of nearly-40 years of salary. And to the third servant, the master gives 1 talent — the equivalent of nearly-20 years of salary. The parable reads that each one was given a different amount “according to his ability.” A better word for ability, from the Greek word dunamis, might be power, so that we read that each servant was given a particular amount of talents according to the servant’s “power.”

The fact remains: each servant was entrusted with a tremendous amount of money over which to be a manager until the master returned. The master knew his servants well enough to know that the first one would more than likely have the “power” to trade and invest and thereby double his portion. The master perceived that the second servant also would be “empowered” to respond favorably with the amount entrusted. The master also knew the third enough to know that 5 talents would be too many, as would 2, but one would about match his level of personal “power” or ability.

Each had been given a staggeringly gracious gift from their master, but it was the one who played it safe who ended up having his portion taken away from him.

It would seem this parable is less a gentle tale about what Christians do with their individual gifts and talents, as helpful as that may be for our purposes here on Commitment Sunday, and more a disturbing story about what Christians do or do not do with the gospel as they wait for the coming dominion of God. For God has entrusted the amazing news of the Gospel to each one of us: the message of eternal reconciliation between God and humanity in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The disturbing point Jesus seems to be making in this parable is that the worst thing we can do is nothing.

As we await the day described by the prophet Zephaniah, the great day of the Lord which is “near and hastening fast” and a day when “neither our silver nor our gold will be able to save us” the question for us is how will we live in the meantime?

Once again we have seen this weekend as wildfires have raged in Montecito and Sylmar and Anaheim Hills how quickly what we have can quite literally go up in smoke. On Friday I was heartsick to learn of the total destruction of Mt. Calvary Monastery and Retreat Center in Santa Barbara, where for the past 20 years I have found spiritual refuge and a true home-away-from-home for my soul’s rest.

As I thought of that holy place high atop the hills above the Santa Barbara mission, the gentle community of monks whose Benedictine hospitality mirrored the gospel’s welcome of every shadowy corner of my identity, and the journey to greater self-understanding and acceptance which was so nurtured on that holy ground, to hear of it burning to the ground as the fires raged through the darkness of the night on Thursday was nearly more than I could bear. I told someone it was like losing a friend whom I had wished I would have spent more time with, regretting the trips I did not make and wishing for more time on that holy ground, now smoldering in ruin and devastation.

But the psalmist’s song today reminds us amid our fears and our sorrows, “Lord, you have been our refuge from one generation to another.” This heritage of the gospel we have been given, that has been passed down from one generation to the next, is the gift of grace and salvation that cannot be destroyed and which has been entrusted to our care and keeping. “For a thousand years in your sight are like yesterday when it is past and like a watch in the night; you sweep them away like a dream, they fade away suddenly like the grass; in the morning it is green and flourishes; in the evening it is dried up and withered.”

Sisters and brothers, on this Commitment Sunday, we remember first and foremost what has been committed and entrusted to us: the eternal treasures of the Gospel, the endless riches of grace in Jesus Christ, the priceless promises of the Word of God revealed in scripture and proclamation, and the limitless resources of the sacraments of God’s house: for in baptism we are washed, named, and claimed for all eternity and in the supper we are fed, nourished, and strengthened to be God’s people sent to serve a world in need.

As we consider what it means to live fully with these gifts which know no ending, may we rightly cast an eye to the ending that will one day take us all, and to the hope that eternity rings with God’s gladness over all who took the trustful risk, for the sake of the Gospel.

Amen.

“I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you took me in, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.”

A group of a dozen or so Lutheran pastors gathered together this past week and, for our opening devotion, the gospel text for this Sunday was read and reflected upon. Without fail, each pastor who commented on the text remarked how haunted by the words we were at this particular time: at this particular time in our own lives and ministries, at this particular time in the unfolding events of the world economic catastrophe and countless global and domestic crises, and at this particular time when our congregations are … well, planning and setting budgets for next year, thinking about the most essential ministry we do as communities of faith. Each one of us wondered aloud how we as individuals, as pastors, and our faith communities were doing on this most basic litmus test as far as Jesus is concerned.

For, you see, this is no parable. Jesus is not telling a story comparing the final day of reckoning using words such as “like” or “as” to make this in any sense a simile, or a scary story. This text is a “pulling back the curtain” (or, apocalyptic) vision of the final judgment when the reign/dominion/sovereignty/lordship of Christ will be cosmic — indeed over all earth and heaven, and — for St. Matthew — these become Jesus’ final words before the events that lead to his arrest and crucifixion.

And while biblical scholars continue to debate over just who exactly “the nations” are which gather before the throne of the Son of Man, and just who exactly “the least of these who are members of my family”are who are hungry, thirsty, strangers, naked, sick, and in prison, and whether Jesus is judging nations or individuals in this vision of that final day in the heavenly courtroom, perhaps the old adage serves us well, “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” In other words, even if it’s the nations being judged for their treatment of “the neighbor in need” — that is, those who are hungry, thirsty, strangers, naked, sick, and imprisoned — then we who individually comprise such nations ought also to be paying very close attention — as individuals — as to how our lives reflect such treatment of our neighbor in need as well.

The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said (quote): “Any religion which professes to be concerned with the souls of people, but is not concerned about the slums that damn them & the economic conditions that cripple them — such a religion is a dry-as-dust religion.” (endquote)

In today’s gospel, Jesus is making hospitality central to his view of ultimate salvation. But just who is Jesus? It may come to a surprise to our ears this morning that Jesus is not only the babe of Bethlehem whose birth we prepare to celebrate; Jesus is not only the one who healed and taught and forgave and performed miracles, and kept company with all kinds of questionable people such as prostitutes, tax collectors, and yes, even religious bigots; Jesus is not only the one who suffered and died on a cross, and on the third day rose again from the dead. Jesus is not only the one who will return to reign for all eternity in a place and time where and when all things have become new.

This morning’s Gospel text, like the cover of the bulletin portrays (with a Christ figure holding what appears to be a bowl of something resembling lentil soup), Jesus is ALSO whomever is hungry or thirsty. Jesus is ALSO the stranger among us, the lowliest outsider or the most odd-newcomer in our midst. Jesus is ALSO the one in prison — the cast-offs and the tossed-asides in our society — locked up behind bars or within walls of addiction or mental illness. Jesus is ALSO the one waiting for a free handout whether she or he deserves it or not because, like us, we got a free handout called God’s grace/aka eternal salvation, which we most certainly did not (and do not!) deserve. Jesus is ALSO the bare-footed, clothing-tattered, hair-matted, lung-coughing expletive-sputtering pedestrian crossing in front of your car idling at the intersection long after your light has turned green.

And, besides all this, what this morning’s gospel vision of the reign of Christ seems to be getting at is: no one really has any idea who Jesus is; at the very least no one seems to recognize him. The ones who fed the hungry, quenched the thirsty, welcomed the stranger, clothed the naked, took care of the sick, and visited the imprisoned had no idea they were “doing it” for Jesus.

Likewise, the ones who DIDN’T feed the hungry nor quench the thirsty, the ones who DIDN’T welcome the stranger nor clothe the naked, the ones who DIDN’T take care of the sick nor visit the imprisoned had no idea they were neglecting Jesus himself.

Indeed, both those who DID and those who DIDN’T asked the question, “Lord, when was it that we saw you…?” (in the aforementioned conditions.)

And likewise, to those who DID and to those who DIDN’T, Jesus says, “Truly, I tell you, just as you DID (or, just as you DIDN’T) do it for the least of these who are members of my family, you DID (or, DID NOT do) it to me.”

Both sides are curiously and completely unaware of the Christ in their midst. But Jesus himself makes it very clear that he has been as close to them as the most needy, the most vulnerable, the most overlooked, and the most helpless, and the most forgotten among them.

It’s a haunting way to bring another church year to its conclusion. This is a far cry — in fact the furthest thing — from kingship and power and dominion as the world knows it. For wherever and whenever Christ reigns among us, the last are first, the least are the greatest, the cursed are the blessed, the hungry get food to eat, the thirsty are given drink, the stranger is embraced as if they are an old friend, the naked and threadbare are dressed for success, the sick are cared for, and the imprisoned are not left alone in their cells.

One of the saints whom the church has given a special place for her unique witness to the faith is the 16th century Spanish mystic and monastic Teresa of Avila. St. Teresa captures the sense of the presence of Christ being within each of us in her writings, which are described as prose marked by “an unaffected grace,” an “ornate neatness”, and a “charming power of expression.”

Let these mystical words of St. Teresa take deep root in you this day as you permit the reign of Christ in the world to begin and continue with you.

Christ has no body but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
Compassion on this world,
Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good,
Yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world.
Yours are the hands, yours are the feet,
Yours are the eyes, you are his body.
Christ has no body now but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
compassion on this world.
Christ has no body now on earth but yours.

It’s the practice in some Hindu countries, like Nepal, to greet one another with the word “Namaste,” which means “the holy within me greets the holy within you.”

May the Christ within you recognize the Christ in all others in the living of these stress-filled days as together we pray “Thy kingdom come” — here in this place, and in all places and to all people.

And may the Christ we meet once again at this table today strengthen us — in a bite of bread and with a sip of wine — to be the Christ for all, and to see and recognize the Christ in all.

Amen.

Have you noticed that the closer we get to Christmas, the more annoying the interruptions of life become? As our time becomes more and more crunched, with “to-do” lists guiding our daily schedules, with holiday activities and obligations piling up on our calendars, and with pending tasks that must be completed driving our days, anything “unexpected” has a way of just ticking-you-off times-ten! That car that pulls out in front of you in a classic L.A. “me first!” move becomes a gross personal violation, the knock on the door or the phone call which comes right in the middle of your very important task becomes a major offense, and even the rain and cold of the past week become great personal sources of vexation and affliction.

As a beloved seminary professor used to gently advise us who were preparing for parish ministry on these matters, “Don’t view such events as interruptions, view them as ‘ministry opportunities’ ” — which sounded really great in the classroom, but really gets under your skin in real time and real life.

In this morning’s Gospel text, Mary too has a major interruption, but instead it was the kind of a life interruption that turns one’s world upside down from that point going forward, perhaps not unlike a death, an accident, a diagnosis, or more unlikely, like winning the lottery. But St. Luke doesn’t reveal to us what Mary was doing when the angel Gabriel was sent to her with the message of her unplanned pregnancy.

This story of the annunciation, the angelic announcement to Mary that she would be the mother of our Lord, has captivated the imagination of artists and theologians alike over the centuries. Like the contemporary depiction of the annunciation on the cover of the bulletin this morning, some medieval writers piously imagined that when the angel Gabriel appeared to her, Mary just happened to be reading the passage from the prophet Isaiah, chapter 7, which speaks of the Lord giving a sign in the form of a young woman with child who bears a son and names him Immanuel. Many visual artists have portrayed Mary, not being interrupted from reading from the scroll of the prophet Isaiah but rather being interrupted from spinning at her spinning wheel. Legend and folklore tell the tale of Mary spinning Jesus’ burial shroud as though somehow she knew in her heart of hearts to prepare for Jesus’ death before even knowing of his conception within her own womb. Perhaps pondering Isaiah’s words: “On that day every place where there used to be a thousand vines, worth a thousand shekels of silver, will become briers and thorns. With bow and arrows one will go there, for all the land will be briers and thorns; and as for all the hills that used to be hoed with a hoe, you will not go there for fear of briers and thorns…”

Whatever Mary was up to there in forgettable Nazareth at that moment of Gabriel’s announcement, what this passage from St Luke seems to suggest is that the faith journey is all about letting God interrupt us. The life of faith, as Mary shows us, is about being open. Open to the unexpected and mysterious. Open to life-changing news. Open to God’s surprising ways with us with a welcome willingness to be interrupted — to think in a new way, to live in a new way, to be a new person — as a result of God’s grace interrupting our regularly-scheduled lives.

Mary’s response to the interruption is a simple statement, which has become repeated in the church over the centuries as a prayer known by its Latin name, the Fiat mihi. “Let it be to me.” “Let it be to me according to your will.” Later on in his life, at the very end of it, the child of Mary prayed a prayer very similar to it in Gethsemane’s garden when he prayed, “Not my will, but yours be done.”

Fiat mihi. Let it be to me.

Martin Luther, in one of his many sermons on the Annunciation, said that there are three great miracles in this passage: first, that a virgin would become a mother; second, that God and humanity would be joined in this child. But Luther said that the most amazing of all was that Mary believed the announcement that she, rather than any other young woman, had been chosen to be the mother of God. Mary was actually the first to believe what God was going to do in the world through Jesus, and in so doing she is the beginning of the church. For just as the Spirit came upon Mary, so the church is promised that the Holy Spirit will come and dwell among us. Even as the word of God comes to Mary and she wrestles with what it could mean for her, so the church continues to hear God’s Word and struggles with its meaning for us today, in the here and now of our lives. Even as Mary carried Jesus into the world, so the church too is the very body of Christ in the world, bearing God’s creativing and redeeming word to every creature.

And meanwhile, there are the interruptions. For Mary, it was an unplanned pregnancy and a lot of explaining to do. For us, we too are pregnant with hopes and fears, with disappointments and dreams, with griefs and with grace sufficient. Yet, as we sang last week as our service began, “To us, to all in sorrow and fear, Emmanuel comes a-singing, his humble song is quiet and near, yet fills the earth with its ringing; music to heal the broken soul and hymns of lovingkindness, the thunder of his anthems roll to shatter all hatred and blindness.”

Today God comes and interrupts our lives yet again, and as with Mary, meets us in our confusion, declares an end to our fears and the beginning of ventures of which we cannot see the ending, and summons us to welcome life being turned upside down by God’s grace.

As Barbara Brown Taylor, professor of preaching and author of Mothers of God, writes,

If you decide to say No, you simply drop your eyes and refuse to look up until you know the angel has left the room and you are alone again. Then you smooth your hair and go back to your spinning or your reading or whatever it is that is most familiar to you and pretend that nothing has happened… Or… you can set your book down and listen to a strange creature’s idea. You can decide to take part in a plan you did not choose, doing things you do not know how to do for reasons you do not entirely understand. You can take part in a thrilling and dangerous scheme with no script and no guarantees. You can agree to smuggle God into the world inside your own body.

Today, with Mary, let us with welcome willingness be interrupted by God’s grace, and proclaim with her, Fiat mihi. Let it be to me, according to your will.

Amen.