A Christmas Story

Last post before the end of the world!

Or not.

Actually, it is the end of the world. In a way. It’s nearly the end of the Advent world, the end of the waiting game for Jesus to be born, the end of longing for a Messiah, the end of pleading, “Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel,” and nearly the time of rejoicing that, “Joy to the world! The Lord is come!” It’s almost the end of our seemingly incessant beseeching of God to deliver us.

That is if the Mayans were wrong.

Or if we were wrong in our interpretations of what the Mayans said.

Which we probably are. After all, Jesus himself says he doesn't know when the end is coming, and I’m thinking that if Jesus isn't privy to the information then we’re probably not high on the disclosure list.

But back to Advent.

I've been thinking and studying a lot on this Christmas story (Advent Bible studies are funny that way,) and I have come to realize that this is one of the most messed-up, backwards, illogical, irrational stories in the whole of Scripture. At least by our human standards. I’m sure it makes perfect sense to God since he’s the one who orchestrated the whole thing, and our little tiny human pea brains aren't supposed to know the mind of God anyway. We’d probably just short circuit. So why is it so cattywhompus? Let’s break it down.

Luke 1:26-37

²⁶ In the sixth month, God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a town in Galilee, ²⁷ to a virgin pledged to be married to a man named Joseph, a descendant of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. ²⁸ The angel went to her and said, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.”

²⁹ Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. ³⁰ But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, you have found favor with God. ³¹ You will be with child and give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus. ³² He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, ³³ and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end.”

³⁴ “How will this be,” Mary asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?”

³⁵ The angel answered, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God. ³⁶ Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be barren is in her sixth month. ³⁷ For nothing is impossible with God.”

³⁸ “I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May it be to me as you have said.” Then the angel left her.

Talking angels aside, this story is weird right from the start. Mary is probably a teenager, Joseph is probably a middle-aged man (admittedly, “middle-aged” in ancient Judea was probably about 30,) and neither of them is expecting this. To be fair, who would expect it? This is major news, a huge change to the daily routine, something way out of the ordinary, beyond human scope. They’re not exactly well-off. I mean sure, they can supply their daily needs, but it’s not like Jesus was born into Herod’s family. He wasn't born to nobles or people high in the social strata. He’s not even born into a priestly family like his cousin, John. Mary and Joseph are plain, normal, totally unassuming. Totally…real and relatable.

Take Mary’s question in verse 34. This has more to it than just basic biology, and it’s a completely “real” inquiry. Sure, she knows that there are certain marital rights that need to be enacted in order to make a child in the traditional way, but it’s also a cultural thing. Being betrothed was serious business. If Mary is found to be pregnant outside of wedlock she is considered an adulteress, the punishment for which is death by stoning. God said so himself. (It’s in Leviticus.) She could have protested wildly (and I think rightly) that if God wants her to give birth to the Messiah, then it won’t do much good if she’s killed in accordance with her religion’s laws laid out centuries ago by God Hisownself. But she doesn't  She knows that God is bigger than the laws. This is the first glimpse of him saying, “Yeah, I said that, but you've missed the point entirely. Watch and wait. This will all turn out right.”

I think this is partially why God chooses Mary—practically a child. Age has nothing to do with bearing children for God (see also Sarah and Elizabeth) but Mary’s age is not God’s concern for her physically; her age allows her to still function with a child-like wonder. When Zechariah questions God’s actions at the announcement of John’s conception he asks, “How can I be sure of this? How do I know you’re telling the truth? We’re old!” His questions come from a place of fear and doubt. Which is why the angel says, “Because I’m an angel of the Lord, you numb-skull! I am Gabriel who has stood before the very presence of God and was sent here to bring you this good news. Now shut up!” (I may have paraphrased that.) Zechariah selfishly asks for proof of God’s work. When Mary asks, “How can this be since I am a virgin?” she doesn't ask for her own benefit, she’s genuinely curious. It’s her child-like curiosity and not her fear that prompt the question. She does not ask for proof, she doesn't ask, “Why me?,” she doesn't even ask for details, she just says, “Okay.” Adults ask too many questions for all the wrong reasons. There’s a purpose to Jesus telling us to be more like children.

Now let’s back up just a bit to verses 32 and 33. Gabriel tells Mary that the child she will give birth to will be king like “his father David” and will “reign over the house of Jacob.” Pretty cool stuff, really. But this is a patriarchal society. Bloodlines, heirs, and birthrights are traced through the father’s lineage. We've already established that Mary is a virgin and that Joseph has no biological presence in this kid’s life. Joseph is Jesus’ adopted father. Yet the family line is still traced through him. We discover in chapter 2 of this saga that it is Joseph who is of the house and lineage of David, and the Gospels lay out clearly that is through Joseph that Jesus’ line goes direct to King David. This sticks with God’s pattern of choosing the youngest and the least to do the most and the greatest. Even though Joseph has no biological ties to his first-born son, God says that’s no barrier to the patriarchy. It’s the relationship that’s important, not the blood line. After all, Joseph allows Mary to live and does not stone her to death for being pregnant before their marriage. He stands by her and believes her wild tale of talking angels and old cousins (and yes, the dream helps.) He does not allow her to become the center of public ridicule, and he fights for his family’s survival from day one. And aren't those all the qualities of a father?

Luke 2:1-7

In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. ² (This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria.) ³ And everyone went to his own town to register.

⁴ So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. ⁵ He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. ⁶ While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, ⁷ and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.

Nothing about this is right. As a woman, I’m filled with a righteous indignation for Mary in this situation. I've never been pregnant, so I can’t empathize there, but I know that from a medical standpoint traveling in your third trimester—late in your third trimester—is not a good idea. Especially when it’s travelling 80 miles on foot through the desert. We assume that there was a donkey for Mary to ride, which is probably historically accurate, but the Gospels never mention it and it really doesn't make the story that much better. I can just see Mary being sea-sick the entire time.

Making matters worse, she is alone. Yes, Joseph is there, but during times of feminine crisis a woman just needs her mother. And her sisters. And her aunts and cousins and friends. It’s just the way things work. In all likelihood this would have been how Mary gave birth had she been allowed to stay in Nazareth. Her time would have come and her family and friends would have been there to help her through it; to put cool cloths on her forehead; to rub her aching feet and back; to hold and comfort her. In Bethlehem, she has Joseph and a barn full of animals. I’m sure Joseph made a lovely midwife, and as my friend Jane pointed out this was probably the first father-attended birth in the history of the world, but it’s a socially, culturally, and gender-ly bizarre situation.

To add insult to injury, there’s no place for the Holy Family to stay. They’ve traveled 80 miles across the desert and now there’s no bed to sleep in. This part of the story has always irked me. What innkeeper in his right mind would look at a pregnant lady who’s about to give birth and say, “Well, there’s always the barn.” You mean to tell me he couldn't have offered the barn to anyone else in the inn and given Mary at least a pallet on the floor? No one else saw Mary in her predicament and volunteered to sleep with the cows? Where was Social Services for cryin’ out loud?! What prophecy does being born in a barn fulfill?

It doesn't. But it is humbling. The Savior of the world doesn't even get the luxury of being born inside. How many other poor mothers gave birth wherever they were? How many other children were born into utter poverty with no one to witness their birth but the beasts of the field? How many mothers today—here, in this century—have only a shack to protect them as they fight for their survival and for the survival of their children? How lowly can you get? The whole point of Jesus is that he was born human just like us in the meanest of circumstances. He started out as the last, the least, the most looked-over right from the cradle.

Luke 2:8-20

⁸ And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. ⁹ An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. ¹⁰ But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. ¹¹ Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. ¹² This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”

¹³ Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

¹⁴ “Glory to God in the highest,
    and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.”

¹⁵ When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”

¹⁶ So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. ¹⁷ When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, ¹⁸ and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. ¹⁹ But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. ²⁰ The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.

This part of the Christmas story has quickly become my favorite because it is the most ridiculous. I lived in Northern Ireland for a year. There are lots of sheep in Northern Ireland. I learned a lot about sheep during my time there. Sheep are many things. Fascinating is not one of them. Watching a herd of sheep in the daytime is boring enough. Keeping watch over a flock at night would be downright dull. Mind-numbingly dull. And shepherds aren't exactly the top of the social totem pole. They aren't typically seen as people of high standing in ancient social circles, and are probably near the bottom of the Roman, Jewish, and Barbara Walters’ “List of Most Influential People.”

And yet here come the angels! I’m sure the shepherds were grateful for the divine distraction, but from a purely marketing standpoint this is not the best target audience for revealing the Best Thing Ever. I mean go big or go home if you’re going to do something incredible, right? God should’ve gone big. Don’t go shepherds, go kings! Go Twitter! Go Facebook! Go Tumblr and Web! Go Google! Go Apple! Go famous celebs! (Yes, that just happened.) Don’t just tell the night shift at the landfill; tell the mayor!

Except that’s not how God does things. He’s already asked the humblest couple to do the most incredible thing in the humblest place. He might as well as the humblest people to bear witness to the Best Thing Ever. So he goes for the last and least. Again. Jesus was born—is born—for everyone, from king to commoner; but he came especially for the downtrodden and destitute. It only makes sense that they are the ones who greet him at his birth.

So God chooses a teenage virgin to bear the Savior of the World and allows his all-important lineage to be traced through the child’s adopted father. The Messiah is born in the lowest and meanest of birthing suites, and the only ones around to give evidence of his birth are some barn-yard work animals and a group of well-meaning but slightly-off farm hands. The whole thing is upside-down and backwards. But that’s okay, because God always seems to do things in a way that appears upside-down and backwards. Despite the teenage mother; despite the adopted father; despite the barn and the manger and the shepherds and all their smelly sheep, the Best Thing Ever is the Greatest Story Ever. And we’re still talking about it, still wondering about it, still studying and blogging about it. The shepherds may not have been the marketing department’s first choice, but they certainly did a first-rate job.

For me, I think I’ll learn to love the upside-down and backwards. I prefer the right-side-up and forward, but God doesn't appear to work that way. It’s not exactly easy here, waiting for the end of the world and all, but ease isn't part of the story. Gabriel spends a lot of time saying, “Peace! Don’t be afraid! Here’s what’s gonna happen.” He never says, “Peace! Don’t be afraid! This is gonna be super easy.” So I guess I need to learn to love the messed-up and illogical, the upside-down and backwards, and to welcome shepherds even when I’m expecting kings and not take out my frustrations on the innkeeper. This is all a process, of course. I’m still waiting for it all to come together. In the meantime, I’ll put my feet up, pour myself another glass of eggnog, contemplate the Christmas tree, and take a page from Mary’s book.

But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.

On Christmas Trees, Gentlemen of the Road, & the Belfast City Council

This past week I succumbed to my yearly bout with a cold/sinus infection. I don’t know why every year I think I escape it and every year, just behind everyone else, here it comes—WHAM!—like a wrecking ball to the head. This one was particularly awful and had me practically bed-ridden for all of Monday. (Honestly, though, who doesn't want to spend their Monday in bed? I just wish it had been on my terms.)

Anyway, I spent the day on the couch in front of the Christmas tree and between naps, bowls of chicken soup, and Sudafed doses I had plenty of time to contemplate one of our more bizarre holiday customs. I mean really, why do we celebrate our Savior’s birth by chopping down a perfectly happy Fraser fir, carting it inside, festooning it with tiny lights (only half of which seem to work at a given time), and bedecking the be-jeebers out of it with ornaments? Who decided this was a great way to mark the start of the salvation story? Sure, there’s something about an ancient German tradition, but then you have to start answering questions about pagan celebrations and the winter solstice and that’s just not where we’re going right now. (Yes, I’m also aware that subjecting my ill sinuses pine pollen was probably not the most holistically healing idea, but the house is full of it anyway and that beautiful tree makes me happy so lay off.)

Back to contemplating the Christmas tree. Why do we chop down a perfectly happy tree and subject it to all the aforementioned finery in the name of the Savior’s birth? Because, without the Christmas tree, we wouldn't have anywhere to hang the Christmas ornaments! Duh!

*sigh*

“Lynnea,” you say, “that’s just restating the problem. It’s still bizarre.” Maybe, but think of it this way; it’s not really about the tree, it’s about the ornaments.

I don’t know what your ornaments are like, but the ones in my house are more bizarre than the tree. There’s the miniature roller skate that belongs to my mother, my father’s collection of Frank Lloyd Wright designs, and my small cowboy boot painted with the Texas flag complete with the lettering “San Antonio 2012!” There are sailboats, tiny anchors, and even a starfish. A real starfish with his friends, two real sand dollars. The winner, though, is the tiny Teddy bear dressed up in a witch’s outfit that has a sign that says “Happy Halloween!” This is very specifically a Christmas ornament, and not a Halloween decoration, because despite the fact that it’s wildly inappropriate it is a testament to my Grandma Finley. She loved Halloween. She loved the kids and the costumes and the candy and the fact that our whole neighborhood just had one big trick-or-treat party. She even hoped to come back after her death reincarnated as a Jack-o-Lantern. (I tried to explain to her that Christians in general and Southern Baptists in particular don’t believe in reincarnation, but that didn't matter.) So the Halloween bear on the Christmas tree is really more a witness to her love and passion and joie de vivre than it is evidence of a theologically confused family, and really isn't THAT what Christmas is all about? Celebrating the joie de vivre?

Speaking of a zest for life, that brings us to the Gentlemen of the Road. This past August I had the incredible opportunity to go to the all-day outdoor music festival in the lovely city (cities? It has a slight split personality thing going on) of Bristol, TN/VA. (Not its fault it was built on two states.) For a good twelve hours, my friends and I wandered around both sides of State St. listening to some fabulous music, eating great local food, imbibing (responsibly!) of local brews, and generally milking our $70 passport tickets for every penny they were worth. I say we won.

It’s only this week, as their live compilation album came out, that I’m really remembering the most amazing part of that experience. Sure, seeing nine fabulous bands including Dawes and Mumford & Sons was pretty awesome, but the most incredible part was the people. Holy gracious, but there were people. So many people! A wall to wall, elbow to elbow, standing-room-only, don’t-sit-down-you’ll-get-squished amount of people.

And talk about a cultural anthropologist’s dream. It was almost worth the $70 ticket just to people watch.  You had your hipsters in their skinny jeans, button-downs, and black-rimmed glasses; your preps in their chinos and seersucker; your mountain-men types in their head-to-heel Carhartts; your dance-to-every-song types wearing bells and bangles and twirling hula hoops; your average-run-of-the-mill festival goers (yours truly); your teenagers trying to fit into every category at once; your pot-heads with their…pot; your wanna-be trust-fund hippies in their designer tie-dye; and your real-deal hippies in their matted dreads and coveralls (including the most dead-on Jerry Garcia Doppelganger I have ever seen!) Thousands of people from every walk of life, but the really incredible thing about this mish-mashed seething melting pot of humanity was the commonality despite the differences. The underlying theme for everyone’s day was the music. It really was all about the music.

Hearing the live recordings months later I remember standing in the midst of that teeming crush of people while we all sang along with the music. All shapes, all styles, all colors, all sizes, all ages, all backgrounds, all singing along at the top of our lungs to the same lyrics to the same songs in the same place at the same time. I can hear it in the crowd when Dawes launches into “A Little Bit of Everything” and I know it was there because I’m in that crowd screaming that song in that place; my voice is in that mass of noise and I can feel it: it’s the joie de vivre. 

Which gets us to the Belfast City Council. It’s not really the City Council in particular, and it’s not even Belfast and the rest of Northern Ireland, but it’s everything they work for and represent. My Norn Iron family has been on my heart and mind of late, more so than usual due to all the recent broo-ha-ha over a recent decision regarding the flying of the Union Jack at Belfast City Hall. I thought about trying to explain this situation but then realized there was no way I could do so in under 2,000 words and even then there would be no justice done and you’d probably just be more confused, so if you want more info check out this link from the BBC: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-northern-ireland-20651163. Let’s just say it’s nasty and violent. Dropping myself on the 50-yard line of Neyland Stadium in the middle of the Vol’s homecoming decked out in Gator gear would get less hostility than the Belfast flag decision. Suffice to say that the division there makes our little “fiscal cliff” issue look like a Kindergartener’s playground scuffle.  

Northern Ireland is no stranger to division, it is no stranger to violence, and it is no stranger to blatant sectarianism. But it is also no stranger to art, beauty, history, music, culture, dance, happiness, life, and vitality. It’s just that these great things have a tendency to get overshadowed by the nasty crap. The violent protests get the publicity while the prayer meetings go undocumented.

I was thinking that what Northern Ireland really needs is the multi-faceted, multi-cultural, multi-generational joie de vivre of a summer concert festival where everyone is united by a common bond of awaking souls. But then I realized that it’s not just the Belfast City Council and Northern Ireland and its flag debate. It’s Chicago and its gang wars. It’s Los Angeles and its race relations. It’s Phoenix and its immigration policies. It’s New York City and its wage discrepancy. It’s North and South Korea, it’s the Sudan, it’s the Middle East, it’s the world. We all need more summer concert, Gentlemen of the Road joie de vivre.

And that’s what’s up with the Christmas tree. Bizarre tradition though it is, it’s not really about the tree; it’s about what the tree represents. It represents families with mixed up holidays full of love and laughter. It represents faith and hope. It represents a parade of time marching out over hundreds of ornaments that all point to one central message: joie de vivre. Life to the full. And isn't THAT was Christmas is all about?

Jason Mraz, the Stated Clerk, and the Gospel of Mark

or

Thirteen Jews Get into a Boat...

This is a message I gave for our youth-led service on September 30, 2012. (“Youth service” often means “Lynnea preaches.” I don’t know how that happens.) It’s a few months old, granted, but I thought I would post it here anyway. It might make some later posts make more sense. The accompanying scripture texts are Isaiah 9:1-7 and Mark 4:35-41. I reference happenings in Covenant Pres. and the PC(USA) specifically, but I feel that our concerns are also the concerns of the Church Universal since we are all members of the Body of Christ.

*   *   *

I want you to think of a time when you were scared. And I mean really scared. Not just “Wow, this roller coaster is really scary!” or “Holy smokes, that firework was close!” but a time when you were truly, deeply terrified. A time when you were afraid for your life. When you sincerely thought that you would die, here, now, in this situation. If you’re really lucky, you can’t think of anything. If you’re not so lucky, you’ll have more than one. I have two, actually, but there’s a statute of limitations on what you can and cannot tell your parents and it isn't up on the more recent one, so you’re going to hear about the storm when I was eight.

Lake Erie is the smallest of the Great Lakes, although it’s the best, but I might be biased. My mother’s parents live on the west side of Cleveland, Ohio, and when I was a kid they had a sailboat at one of the local yacht clubs. A small, 34-foot sloop rig which was mostly for day sails, but could comfortably accommodate a short out-of-pocket cruise if you were so inclined. The yacht club my grandparents belonged to hosted a sail camp every summer. Six weeks on the water learning how to sail. It was awesome. There were different classes of boats based on age and skill level and the top class belonged to the Lasers. You had to be at least fifteen to sail a Laser, a 15-foot one-person boat, and it took skill. You had to be able to simultaneously maneuver sails, lines, wind, and waves, while steering. In a race. I never got there, but several of my older cousins did. The best part of sail camp was the annual Laser Races at the end of the summer when the oldest kids got to show off their sailing prowess.

This particular night my grandfather took all of us—my cousins Devin, John, and Sarah; my grandmother; and my self—out on his boat to watch the races. My oldest cousin Michael was participating, crewing his blue-hulled, rainbow-sailed vessel with skill and accuracy.

The night was going well, perfect weather, when suddenly—and I mean suddenly, from nowhere—a storm came up. I can completely relate to the story in Mark’s Gospel, because this storm came out of nowhere. The sky went black. The water turned to a rolling boil. The winds went to gale force in a matter of minutes if not seconds. Water spouts erupted 200 yards from the bow. Thunder crashed around us and lightning lit the sky to mid-day brightness. Now remember, Michael and 12 of his fellow Laser-class sailors are in the water at this time. Their boats capsized and turtled. Kids were thrown from their small cockpits. The mast on Michael’s boat snapped in two at the base ripping his rainbow-laden mail sail to pieces. My grandfather—who was 67 at the time—fished Michael from the waves by his life jacket along with several other kids. One Laser, tossed by the wind, flipped end over end until it smashed into the rocks of the break wall. I know this sounds like a Faulkner novel or a JJ Abrams plot line  but I promise you it’s true, I've got people to corroborate my story. My grandmother threw life jackets over our heads and shoved us down below.

We were scared. None of us had ever been in a storm like this, not on land, not on water, not anywhere. Waves crashed over the side of the boat and water seeped in through the portholes. The closed portholes on top of the boat. Every bolt in the ship strained with the effort to stay together. Even my cousin Devin, who had earned himself the nickname “Crash” by the time he was eight for his propensity for fearless stunts, had tears streaming down his face. I was terrified. But it wasn't until I saw my grandfather—my brave grandfather who could stand up to anything or anyone, who successfully captained a PT boat in the South Pacific during World War Two, who had seen more of life and death by the time he was 20 than most people see in a lifetime—it wasn't until I looked up through the companionway to see my grandfather physically wrestling with the wheel of his boat to bring her safely home, and in the flash of the closest lightning bolt I ever wish to witness, I saw my grandfather’s eyes. And he was scared. He was scared for himself, and he was scared for his family, and he was scared that he may not be able to bring us safely home. In that moment, I knew I would die. There was not a doubt in my mind. Clearly, and thank God, I was wrong.

I don’t remember getting to port. I don’t remember the end of the storm. I don’t remember what happened to Michael’s boat. I do remember getting off on the dock and literally kissing the ground. I remember watching the weather report afterwards and the description of the storm that no one had seen the likes of in years. Even the weather men were impressed and appalled. I remember the reports from the Coast Guard that others had not been as lucky as my family and me. I remember all of that because I survived. I survived, and somehow the storm did not win.

We live in challenging and trying times, my friends. There are lots of scary things happening, lots of uncertainties. You might even say we are in the middle of a storm, and fairly mighty one at that. And when I say “we” I mean we, us, here in the pews. Covenant has had a lot of turnover in leadership, we have been confronted with sickness and even death. We are in flux and we are tired and we scared. The denomination is there, too. There are lots of fearful things that are staring us down that we have to face and we feel we are not ready. We have to confront policy, we have to confront procedure, we have to confront divestment in the Middle East, we have to confront our response to terrorism, we have to confront theology, and funding, and where we’re headed as a church family. And we certainly have to confront that huge elephant in the room that everyone’s praying I won’t mention, but friends we have no choice. One of the things we have to confront is homosexuality. There, I said it, from the pulpit. It’s here, and it will not go away. It’s not new, it’s been around for as long as people have been around, just like all the other storms we’re in. We have to struggle with where our faith meets our world. That is not new either. Where does our faith in the saving grace of Christ meet our knowledge that we are in a storm and it appears that God doesn't care if we drown? Where do the values we hold so dear meet the world we have to live in? What are these values? How do we live them? And the most terrifying thought is that maybe these values are different from what we originally thought.

Now, friends, hear me clearly. When I say we have to confront these things, I mean confront them as we confront the storm. I mean we have to face them, we have to talk about them, we have to admit that they are problems and we cannot stick our heads in the sand. Now, I don’t mean that we have to confront all of them all at the same time, but we must be aware that these are the storms on the horizon. And I certainly do not mean, nor do I in any way mean to imply, that we must confront on another. Just the opposite. We have to stand together and confront things as the family we are. We in no way have to agree 100% on everything—in fact, we probably shouldn't. If we agreed 100% on everything then someone either isn't thinking or doesn't care—but we do have to be willing to talk about and be fearful with one another. Just as Devin held me in his arms with tears streaming down his cheeks in the middle of that storm whispering, “We will not die. We will not die. We will not die.” so, too, we must stay together. We are family. We must be vulnerable.

The words from Isaiah are ones that we usually only hear once a year at Christmas. It’s the story of a promise, and ancient promise that we know now has come true. But the story doesn't stop at Christmas and it didn't stop at Easter. These words live on because Jesus lives on. They are words for everyday, just as much as Christmas. Isaiah tells us right here in verse one that in the past God humbled the Jewish lands of Zebulun and Naphtali but that in the future he will humble the land of the Gentiles. The Gentiles, people! This is not what the Jews want to hear. The Jews are God’s own people, they are his chosen, they don’t want to hear that he will save the literally God-forsaken Gentiles. But God didn't ask their opinion. And guess what? We are the God-forsaken Gentiles, except we are God-forsaken no more. God is here with us, that’s what Isaiah goes on to say; for to us a child is born, to us a son is given, to all of us, everywhere, and his government will have no end, not ever, no way, no how. He is here. And he is here to stay.

As Sherrolyn, the pastor, said last week, God saw something in us that was worth saving. And not just once, that’s the really crazy thing. God keeps saving his people over and over and over again. He saved Noah from the flood, he saved Isaac from the knife, he saved Moses from Pharaoh and lead the people out of Egypt, he saved Joshua and the people from all the –ites in Canaan, he saved David from his own adulterous stupidity, and he saved all of us through his son Jesus Christ. Honestly, sometimes I don’t know what he sees in us that’s so worth saving. But he didn't ask my opinion. We are just like the disciples: hopelessly obtuse, challenged in our faith, and often even our best efforts fall abysmally short of the mark. But Jesus keeps saving us.

He saves us from the storm. Yes, we are in the boat. Yes, we are headed across the lake. And, certainly yes, there is a storm. But you have options. There are other boats here out on the water with us. You can jump ship, join with another vessel. Look for one that’s sturdier, that’s bigger, that’s crewed by more than a rag-tag bunch of fishermen, tax collectors, lawyers, and half-wit carpenter who doesn't even have the sense enough to stay awake in a typhoon. It makes a lot of sense to want to get the heck out of dodge and no one will blame you. So you can jump ship to another boat. You can even jump ship and swim for shore. Both are viable options in this scenario, but here’s the kicker: you are still in the same storm. Every boat that’s around you, every person you can see is in the same storm as you, and we’re all scared.

Fear is not unnatural, it’s not even wrong. It keeps us in check, it—in most cases—keeps us from doing extremely stupid things. It’s a defense mechanism and a survival tool. Fear is not inherently bad, but when fear becomes debilitating, that’s when it becomes evil. When we are so immobilized by that which scares us that we can’t move, that’s when we fall prey to the storm. But there is good news. The disciples were afraid. They knew they were going to drown and in their desperation they did the only thing that they could think of. They woke the half-wit carpenter asleep in the stern and said, “Don’t you care if we drown?!” And notice what Jesus does. He doesn't say, “Of course I care!” He doesn't grumble, he doesn't fight them. He stands up and yells at the weather. “Quiet! Be still!” He takes action. Jesus was fully human as much as he was fully God; you’re gonna tell me that his humanity wasn't even a little bit nervous with the furious squall? But none the less, he takes shows courage and takes action. Courage is not the absence of fear. Courage is action in the face of fear. If you are never afraid, then you never have a chance to be brave.

What follows is, I believe, the most interesting part of the story. Up to this point we can only infer that the disciples were scared. After all, what person in their right mind wouldn't be scared when caught in a violent storm while out on the water with literally nothing between you and the elements? They really thought they were going to drown, and I call that excellent basis for being petrified with fear. But it never actually says they are afraid. We only get the word “terrified” once in these six verses, right at the end, only after Jesus has calmed the wind and the waves. Look at it. There is no mention of fear or terror or any other synonym until the very last verse, verse 41. I asked the kids this question when we were preparing for the service: if the storm is over, then what are they terrified of? My friends, they are terrified of Jesus. What he has just done is so far outside their realm of experience, so far beyond their understanding, that the disciples are more scared of him than of the storm.

Jesus is scary! What Jesus does is scary and what Jesus asks us to do is especially scary. There is room here for fear. But there is room, too, for Jesus. Get in the boat. Go across the lake. There will be a storm. You will not die. I admit, I stole that quote from the Stated Clerk of the PC(USA), but I had permission, and the man’s got a point. You will not die! God sees us as worth saving, again and again and again. You will not die! To us a child is born and to us a son is given. You will not die! A furious squall will come up and you will be stuck in a boat. You will not die!

God is here. He has always been here. He always will be here. He will not give up. He will not give up on our fear, he will not give up on our questions, he will not give up on our stresses or worries, he will not give up on our disbelief or our unbelief or our mistakes or our screw-ups or our doubt. He will not give up! He will not give up on us. God is bigger than all of that. God is bigger than policy and procedure. God is bigger than changes in leadership. God is bigger than the Middle East and homosexuality. God is bigger than our mistakes and our screw-ups and our unbelief. God is bigger than the storm. You will not die. God will not give up. 

Ecclesia-- What?

Ecclesiastically lowminded. This is the adverbial phrase I have bestowed upon myself to describe my relationship with Bible studies, theological discourse, faith-based conversations, and any and all other dissertations and wonders related to my proclaimed Christianity and hopelessly irreversible Presby-geekdom.

I like words. Can you tell?

That run-on sentence really doesn't tell you much, so let’s give you some definitions.

Ecclesiastically: adverb form of the adjective “ecclesiastical” meaning; 1: of or relating to a church especially as an established institution, and 2: suitable for use in a church. This blog could one of those things, both of those things, or none of those things, but these musings certainly meet the criteria for definition number one. I’ll let you decide if they stand up for number two.

Lowminded: adjective. Technically a nonsense adjective since I just made it up, but it means of or pertaining to lesser thought. As in not thinking so much. Let me be clear, though. It does not mean uneducated, simple, stupid, dumb, mentally slow, or any other adjective relating to ignorance. It simply means that the head doesn't always “get it” and sometimes you need to go lower…like to the heart.

In Zen Buddhism there is a term—a state of being—referred to as “no mind” or “no mindedness” said to be accomplished when one’s mind is not fixed or occupied by anything and is therefore open to everything. I don’t know that I necessarily need or want my mind open to everything all at once (how would I even begin to process?!), but I do like the idea of my mind being not quite so occupied all the flippin’ time. Who among us does not need to remind ourselves that really life will be okay? Who has ever found themselves consciously saying, “Breathe. Breathe. It will all be fine.”? Who has ever wished that you could just stop thinking for awhile and go with your heart? Who has ever wished that you could listen to your heart more?

Right?

Ergo: lowminded. I don’t need everything to flood in all at once or for my mind to be so open that my brains fall out, and I do need to be able to sort and sift and work through my conscious thoughts, but I just don’t need my brain to work as much overtime as it does. It’s not like it’s getting paid time-and-a-half here, so I have to remind it to take vacations. To let my heart do some thinking for a while. To get low.

So, what does “ecclesiastically lowminded” really mean? It means letting your heart think about faith for a while. It means to store up the lessons and gifts that God bestows on you through his Word, his world, and his people and ponder them in your heart. It means to give your brain a break and allow your heart and soul to wrestle with the faith that never claimed to be easy, but always claims to be right—if we don’t royally screw it up by trying to rationalize everything.

Because there’s the kicker: nothing about my proclaimed Christianity and hopelessly irreversible Presby-geekdom ever claimed to be rational. Oh sure, the people of the PC(USA) are poster children for Robert’s Rules of Order and I don’t profess in the slightest that we have it all figured out (‘cause we definitely don’t) but we do come together and speak from the heart. Sometimes I think I stay a Presbyterian in spite of myself and in spite of the decisions my denomination makes that really tick me off, but it’s my family. We don't make sense, but we’ll all senseless together.

Our God is not a rational God. He is not a logical God, and nothing he does ever really makes sense. He speaks to hearts and souls and emotions and all else that our world deems illogical. My faith—our faith—is one that was born of the heart, not the head. God so loved the world. Love is a heart thing, not a head thing. So sometimes you have to rest your brain. Sometimes you have to go lower. You have to go to the heart. You have to sing Christmas songs in Advent even though it’s liturgically incorrect because it’s what your heart longs to do. Sometimes you just have to be ecclesiastically lowminded.