Text: John 2:1–11
Other texts: 1 Corinthians 12:1-11, Isaiah 62:1-5, Psalm 36

Note: This sermon prepared and preached by Craig Simenson, vicar at Faith this year.

Jesus did this—turned water into wine—the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory.

“Revealed,” from the Greek, efanerôsen, which might more literally be translated, “made manifest” or “made known.”

In Greek, its root word—faneroô—is related to words like the adjective meaning “light,” the word for “torch,” and the verb fainô, which means “to bring to light, to make appear, to make clear.”

According to the Gospel, turning water into wine, Jesus made manifest his glory. According to the Gospel, by this, he brought his glory out into the light.

The same root word in John is used in 1 Corinthians 12, verse 7, used to describe the presence of the Spirit of God among us. “To each is given the manifestation (ê fanerôsis) of the Spirit.”

We can pick up the notes of manifestation and of things brought into the light in the prophet Isaiah, as well:

For Zion’s sake, I will not keep silent,

For Jerusalem’s sake, I will not rest,

until her vindication shines out like the dawn,

her salvation like a burning torch.

The nations shall see your vindication,

and all the kings your glory.

And in Psalm 36:

For with you is the well of life;

and in your light we see light.

Epiphany and these days that follow it is a time of growing light. A time when we as a church body look for the light that grows stronger and brighter among us with every new day.

Epiphany, from epifaneia, another word for “manifestation” in Greek. A word derived again from the root verb fainô, “to bring to light, to make appear, to make clear.”

Epiphany is a time when we look to the God revealing Godself to us again in the Word made flesh. When we look to the God who steps out of the cold darkness into the marvelous light.

This Epiphany and these days that follow it is the story of our own journey into the growing light of a new year. And although we have seemingly come a long way in a few short weeks, from Christmas’ nativity to the visit of wandering magi, to an adult Jesus being baptized in the Jordan and now a wedding feast—we are still at the beginning of this new day.

Jesus did this—turned water into wine—the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory.

Listening closely to the details of the Gospel this morning, however, we understandably might puzzle over just what exactly is revealed in John’s account. In the end, it seems that few know what has happened or who is responsible for it. The Gospel even makes it an explicit point that, though the servants who had drawn the water know where the wine has come from, the chief steward does not. So that when the steward tastes the water become wine, he calls not to Jesus but to the bridegroom.

And there is no indication that anyone but the disciples and perhaps Jesus’ mother recognizes the significance of what Jesus has done.

No, curiously, the gospel’s account ends quite abruptly. There is no public pronouncement, plain and clear, that Jesus is anyone but another wedding guest or that the good wine served last is anything but a bridegroom’s atypical wedding plan. Noting that the wine has previously run out and the steward’s comments about drunken guests, we might even wonder if anyone at the party realizes just how good that wine tastes.

Listening closely to the details of the Gospel this morning, it is not abundantly clear what, if any, kind of glory Jesus has revealed. The world it seems remains in the dark. Jesus’ glory seemingly has little to no impact on those around him.

And, yet, the Gospel declares boldly: Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.

Epiphany and these days that follow it is a time when we as a church body look to the God who steps out of the cold darkness into the marvelous light of a new age. Yet, even after the glimmer of Christmas’ morning light, the world is still waiting.

We are still looking for the light to break out from above the horizon.

We are still surrounded by darkness, still left to wait in the cold and gloom of this present winter. Still left to wait in a world that seems even darker now than it did just five days ago.

And, yet, the Gospel tells us boldly this morning: Jesus did this… and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.

The irony of John’s account of the wedding in Cana for us, of course, is that when we hear and step into the storyline this morning, we perhaps know more about the one who turns water into wine than anyone else does. The irony of John’s account for us is that our eyes, from the very first moment, are consistently turned to Jesus. Like the disciples who believed, we see what few others notice. We know the story and who sets it into motion. We know that the true light, which enlightens everyone, is coming into the world.

The irony of John’s account for us this morning is that, even though the world remains largely in darkness. Though millions in Haiti, in Afghanistan and elsewhere lie surrounded by death. Even though we ourselves in the struggles and pain of our own lives are still waiting for the light to break out from above the horizon. Still, we see and know that the light for all people, radiant and full of grace and truth, is now beginning its rise.

In Epiphany and these days that follow, we are given this gift—to see the light that is surely coming though darkness surrounds us still, though clouds threaten to dim our view.

Listening closely to the Gospel this morning, recognizing ourselves in the midst of its details, we see the one turning water into wine. Jesus, the one who finally listens to his mother—though the hour of his most radiant light has not yet come—and gives away the best wine abundantly—to a crowd that will not recognize it for what it is.

Our gift this morning is that we taste the good wine and know exactly where it comes from: the abundance of the house of God being built up around us,.. the river of hope and joy from which we drink, the well of life, the light by which we see light.

The glory revealed to us this morning is a glory not only made manifest before us but given to us—that we might believe and follow faithfully, that we might be one body, sharing in common. That we might give to our worlds as abundantly as God gives to us.

There remains darkness, and there will be more on the journey ahead of us—in the footsteps of a crucified Christ.

Yet, this God is already in our midst. This water become wine, this Word become flesh dwells among us here and now.

A new world is coming into being—though the shadows of a forsaken and desolate world remain.

But if we know what to look for—as subtle as it often may be. If we know who we are following. If we recognize that the Spirit of God that turned water into wine dwells also among us. If we look to the glorious and good light illuminating our dark skies already, we will see that we are being called to give ourselves away to a needing world.

The sun has not broken over the horizon yet, but we know that it is coming. And if we give ourselves to the darkened places, there will be enough light and life for all of us, enough healing and resurrection for all of creation.

Text: Luke 3:15-17, 21-22
Other texts: Isaiah 43:1-7

If you look on page 935 in the Bible in the pews, you’ll see in the right column a heading that says “The Baptism of Jesus.” There are headings like this all over the Bible. But those headings are not actually in the Bible. They are put in there by the editor of this particular edition of the Bible. They are editorial notes that are to guide you. But they are sometimes unreliable guides and misleading. They reflect a certain agenda.

The agenda today is to highlight the baptism of Jesus. The baptism of Jesus has been a theological big deal for many centuries. That’s because people don’t agree on its meaning. If baptism is about washing away sins, for example, why did Jesus, who has been considered sinless, need a washing? So today in the church year is called the “Baptism of our Lord,” as you can see from the cover of the bulletin.

In the Gospel of Matthew, much is made of the baptism story (it is on page 879 if you are interested in looking at it). But in Luke, whom we just heard, the baptism itself is pretty much described in passing. It says: Jesus, having been baptized and while praying, the heavens opened up. That’s it for the baptism part. And when they opened a dove-like body and a voice from heaven spoke. Now the dove and the voice (and what the voice said, which I’ll talk about in a minute), that was significant and powerful. But the baptism: not so much. So to call this story the baptism of Jesus is like taking the Red Line to see the Tall Ships or the Circ du Soleil and calling the story: “My trip on the MBTA.” It is true, but it is not the main thing.

There is always a tension between John and Jesus in the Bible. Maybe that is because they were competitors of sorts, competing for crowds and for disciples. In the stories of Jesus, John the baptizer has an important but short-lived role. In the Gospel of Luke—today’s reading—John disappears as soon as Jesus appears. In fact, in Luke, as soon as Jesus starts his ministry, John is put into prison. Those verses (18, 19, and 20) are skipped in the assigned lectionary reading. Luke can’t ignore John, but it seems he doesn’t really want John in the story. That may be because John and Jesus have very different messages. John likes to talk about the winnowing fire. Jesus likes to talk about something else.

Lutherans are fond of dyads. Things in twos that both support and fight with one another. Like John and Jesus, I guess. Saints and sinners, infinite in the finite, things like that. One of the dyads is the law and the gospel. The law tells you what God wants you to do. The gospel tells you God loves you anyway. The two are related, of course. God loves you and so tells you what to do so that you do not wander aimlessly. And one of the things God wants you to do is not worry about whether God loves you. But the law and the gospel have very different flavors. They are opposite ends of what I once called the crab/joy scale. The law is a little crabby and the gospel pretty joyous.

John is on the law, the crabby, side of things. “You brood of vipers, who warned you of the wrath to come?” he asked the crowd before Jesus arrived. Pretty crabby. He is big on repentance, which means changing direction. People are doing the wrong thing. They had better do the right thing, or else. In Luke, and in Luke only, John lists some of the things they must do: share with others who have less than you, don’t be greedy or corrupt, don’t extort things by threats. John likes the notion of a winnowing fork and the unquenchable burning of the chaff. It is not that John wants people to burn. He wants them to live. But the way to life for John is through some repentant action on the part of the sinners, the vipers.

Jesus, as you can guess, is the on the gospel, the joy side of things. The so-called story of the baptism of Jesus is a story of God (or we assume God, since it only says a voice from heaven), a story of God declaring God’s love for Jesus. You are my beloved son, the voice says. I am very pleased with you. The word that God uses means the merciful love of one creature for another. It is the word Jesus uses when he talks about loving both neighbor and enemy. It is not affectionate love, though it doesn’t hurt to hear affection in the voice from heaven. It is the love of unconditional acceptance. God declares that Jesus is loved. And that God is pleased with Jesus. This declaration has nothing to do with the actions of Jesus. It is an announcement, not a reward for righteous behavior. Or even not encouragement for good behavior in the future. While John likes burning chaff, Jesus likes the notion of the saved grain. Like John, Jesus wants people to live, too. But the way of life is through the love of God independent of the actions on the part of sinners, who are God’s children.

Both the law and the gospel serve to rescue people. Which is what we call redemption. Redemption is the main story of the Bible. The oldest story (it is a song) in the Bible is a tale of God’s freeing the Israelites from slavery in Egypt. Rescuing them. Redeeming them. And later, God brings home the people of Israel from their captivity in Babylon, their exile from their homeland. One interpretation—the crabby interpretation—of the Babylonian exile is that Israel had messed up big time, and that as a consequence lost their land and their God. But the joyous interpretation is that God never gave up on God’s people. Over and over God tells the people that while they may have broken the covenant, God will not. In the portion of Isaiah which we just heard—which is from the time of the exile—God says, “do not fear.” God says, “I have redeemed you.” God says, “You are precious in my sight.” “I will be with you.” “I love you.” Jesus is part of this story.

Sometimes we secretly think John is right. We feel viper-ish (like vipers). We are sinners. We do stuff that we never should do. We hurt people and ourselves. We are cowardly. We don’t do stuff we wished we had. Didn’t speak up, didn’t help, didn’t love. We get into horrible jams. We fall short. It would be helpful if there were something we could by our own efforts do to fix all this. And there are things we can do better by trying.

But we cannot totally rescue ourselves. Even if we keep a stiff upper lip, throw our shoulders back, pick ourselves up by our bootstraps, and step forward with new resolve. If we think we can depend on ourselves or on others, we will be disappointed and sad and life will not be in us.

We need light in our deep darkness. We need guidance in our deep confusion. We need courage in our deep fears. We need love in our deep alone-ness.

Jesus knows this. What Jesus promises is a way out of the tangles. What we sometimes call sin. The repentance that John preaches says: You messed up, but it is OK. You messed up, but you are doing better. Good for you. The gospel that Jesus teaches says: You are in a messed up place. But I will free you. I will get you out of there. I will bring you home.

Where John preaches repentance, Jesus preaches unearned love. Where John preaches fire, Jesus preaches forgiveness. Where John harasses, Jesus heals.

There is a lot of John the baptizer in our theology. Perhaps it suits us to think we are at least sort-of masters of our fate. Perhaps it suits us to think of ourselves as unworthy vipers sometimes. But this is not what Jesus, the one we follow, calls us. Jesus tells us what the voice from heaven told him. You are beloved. I am pleased with you. And what God said to God’s people. I call you by name. You are mine. I love you.

Text: Matthew 2:1-12 Other texts: Psalm 71:1-7

Not so long ago people thought that science was objective. That is, researchers looked at something—data, the results of an experiment, a phenomenon—and observed something. It was objective because it was about the object—the thing observed. Not subjective, about the subject, the observer. The premise was that all observers would see the same event in the same way. Experiments were reproducible. If you did the same thing, but with different observers, you would get the same results.

Now we know this is totally bogus. It turns out that the subject, the observer, has a huge effect on the results. What the observer sees is irredeemably influenced by what she or he thinks, feels, believes, hopes for, fears, and expects. There is no neutral observer. There is no way to see neutrally. All observation is interpretation. Not only in science but in everything.

Today we heard he story of the three kings. Or the three wise men, as it says in our version. Or better, the three magi—persons who could read the meaning of the stars and other auspicious events. Looking at an unusual star, they have divined its meaning. A child is born king of the Jews. They decide to pay the new king a visit, and to kneel at his feet, a posture of humility that is powerfully respectful of the young infant king. A child is born, not will be born. Jesus is king, it says, not king in the making or king potential. Born king.

The wise men, not so wisely, decide to stop on the way to visit the current incumbent king. He is upset. That’s understandable. If there is a new king, what about the old king? The king is dead, long live the king, and stuff like that. Herod, as we know, was not a nice man. He really wasn’t—not just in the Bible, but from other sources, also. Anyway, he tells the magi that he wants to visit Jesus, too, and kneel at the feet of Jesus, too. He is lying. Wisely, in the end they do not report what they have found, but take the back roads on the way home.

There is something fishy in this story. You might ask, why does Herod need the magi? Why does he not follow the star himself? It is not like stars are local. If I can see a star, then pretty much everyone in my hemisphere can see the star, too, you would think. Either Herod cannot see what the magi see, or Herod cannot interpret what he sees in the way the magi can. Or maybe, as a postmodernist might say, Herod cannot see the star because of the person he is. The star is good news to the magi, who can see it. It is fearsome news to Herod, who cannot.

The magi see with hope. Herod sees with fear. The frightened man does not see what the hopeful ones see. The magi see a new future. Herod sees no future. The magi see in the future the things we just heard about in Isaiah and in the psalm. Justice, joy, defense of the needy and the end of oppression. Good news to many, including perhaps the magi. Not good news to Herod, who is unjust, nasty, greedy, and brutal. Not good news, as it says, to all of Jerusalem. Herod has reason to fear, on the face of it.

Hope and fear are opposing forces. Opposing spirits, you might say. I hope we’ll get a puppy, says the child. I fear we’ll get a puppy, says her father. Exact opposite views of the same act. Hoping for something not to happen is to fear it. I hope we won’t get a puppy is what the father says, using the word hope but not being hopeful, still being fearful. Fear disguised as hope.

Hope by and large looks ahead. The magi look ahead. They are hopeful because they see that Jesus will bring about a new kind of world. They hope that he will. Herod looks back. You might say he looks ahead to bad things happening; but that is a lot like looking backward, holding on to the present or the past, which has the advantage of being predictable. Rather than looking forward, which is bound to be unpredictable, and maybe disruptive. If you are a magi, or poor, or oppressed, then disruptive in a good way.

Christianity is a religion with hope at its base. It fights against despair and discouragement. It proclaims redemption and renewal. Other religions do, too, I’m sure, but Christianity is the one we know best here. In Advent, Mary sings the Magnificat, a song whose center is hope. My spirit rejoices, she says. The proud and the powerful will become humble, and the lowly and the weak will stand up. God will fulfill a long-time promise. At Christmas, the magi carry hopes for a new king, a new realm. And even the death of Jesus in Holy Week is undone by his resurrection at Easter. Our religion is full of promises, which are hopes with clout. Hope should be the default stance of Christian institutions, like churches, and Christian individuals.

So, when Christianity is used as a religion of fear, and when people find comfort in fearful predictions, it is a double betrayal. When Christianity is used as a tool of oppression, rather than liberation—which is just another meaning of the word redemption—and as a way to justify war, rather than reconciliation, and when it is used to scare people into action instead of freeing them to act, it has abandoned hope for fear.

It is the strength of hope that lets people live lives of grace. Things are hard. But fear makes them worse. Fear shrinks the future.

Yesterday I went to a memorial mass for a woman I’ve know for about fifteen years. She was 71. In all the time I’ve know her, she has had cancer. In all the time I’ve known her, she has helped others, has been generous with her time and money, has been a community leader. At her memorial service, people said over and over how full of grace she was. This woman had had a cerebral hemorrhage when she was 27. Then, and every moment after then, she had two ways of seeing her life. She could see as Herod did. A future bleak and narrow. Or she could see like a magi. An abundant life.

You’ve probably heard me quote the passage in Deuteronomy in which Moses gives the Israelites a choice to follow God or not. He says to them “I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live.” Moses could just as easily said “I have set before you hope and fear. Now choose hope.”

We make choices constantly. Some are trivial, some momentous. Some require prudence and planning. In any case, here’s a rule of thumb. Take account of and think about all thing things you need to. Tally your worries and expectations. Then ask yourself whether you are deciding out of hope or out of fear. And then choose hope.

Look to the east.

Text: Colossians 3:12-17
Other texts: Luke 2:41-52

We spoke on Christmas Eve about all the possibilities inherent in the birth of a child. All the uncertainties and hopes that go with new birth. And how we can imagine all the things that might happen to a new infant. We hope that all children have lives of grace. We know that some might revolutionize the world. We have read that Mary pondered the future of her miraculous child in terms like these. What would her child Jesus be like?

But now, already, Jesus is growing up. There is not much about the childhood of Jesus in the gospels, just a couple of stories like the one we heard today. And thus there are only a couple of Sundays in the season of Christmas before we get to the ministry of the adult Jesus in the world. That hasn’t stopped people from writing about the young boy Jesus, but we figure those writings are fanciful.

What we do know from scripture is that Jesus was a good, well-brought-up boy. He almost surely could read. He certainly knew his Bible. People in the Temple are amazed at this young boy’s knowledge of Torah and his sophisticated understanding of it.

What a child needs to know as he or she grows up is how to be a part of the community, the culture. And to know how to behave as a responsible citizen. These are things we all need to know. And all need reminding of from time to time. Even as adults. Or maybe especially.

The apostle Paul, prime missionary for the newly born church of Jesus Christ, is a good one to remind us. That is pretty much what Paul does. He starts churches and then he writes them long letters reminding them how to behave. Because they forget. Being a follower of Jesus is sometimes a peculiar thing. It often goes against the “basic principles of this world,” as Paul [or an author claiming to be Paul] writes earlier in this letter to the Colossians.

Before the passage that we heard today from this letter, Paul tells his church all the things they are advised not to do. But in today’s reading he tells them what they should do. Which is much more helpful. He tells them first who they are. Then how they should appear. Then how they should behave.

He reminds them first that they are chosen, holy, and beloved. He is claiming for them the same privileges that Jews like Paul already have. They are chosen by God to be a light to others, to be an example of the way to live in harmony with God’s intent and will. They are holy, a word that means separate—set apart from the rest of the world both through their reliance on God’s word and through their actions in response. And they are loved by God. They live in God’s unconditional grace. All together these things mean they are God-focused. As a consequence, they—meaning we—spend time thinking—and praying—about what God wishes for us and how we might reveal the God we know to the world. And that we have both the requirement and the freedom to do that.

So, having set that foundation, Paul tells them: how to dress. He tells them they—we—should clothe ourselves in compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience. Five things: compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience. We shouldn’t ignore how powerful and difficult to follow this advice is. All of these words imply servility. Servility is not something we usually admire in ourselves. This is more than being good to other people. It is more even than being a servant to other people. It means valuing others more than we value ourselves. It means also a willingness to waive our rights rather than gain at the expense of another. It means also to not be frustrated and angry at the idiotic behavior of those other people.

None of this is easy. We cannot, you might argue, control how we feel. But Paul only asks that we control the clothes we put on, not the body underneath. That is, how we act and therefore appear to others. Clothing can highlight the best of us and hide the worst. Fortunately for all. We can act compassionately toward those whom we despise. We can be humble toward those whom we feel superior. We can be patient in the face of aggravation. And I’m sure as some of you have discovered, when you act that way often you become that way. How you feel follows what you do. It is made of magic cloth, these clothes of Paul. Acting in love changes you so that you love more. So Paul says: finally, clothe yourself in love. Love binds them all together.

We speak of the assembly of Christians in the world as the body of Christ. The body is called together by God. But it is held together by our forgiveness. By, as Paul says, bearing with one another. It is the forgiving of others, the forbearance of others’ faults, that is the radical center of Christianity. It comes from God. As we are forgiven, so we forgive. But it happens through us. Through our actions day to day. Who would adopt a faith based on servility? Christians. Christians do.

We do this, and we can do this—even though imperfectly—because Jesus is in us and we are in him. Paul encourages the Colossians: the peace of Christ rule in your hearts and the word of Christ dwell in you richly. Make space for Jesus, someone described this. When in doubt, think: if Jesus ruled my heart—which in the time of Jesus was the organ you thought with, the center of rationality—if Christ ruled my heart, what would I do now? Or think: if I were at peace with myself and God, what could I do now?

As the chosen, holy, beloved people of God, we show the world who we are by the way we act—the clothes we wear. We are to be a light to the world. And we show each other that, too. New Englander Thoreau wrote “beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes.” But we are taught that Christ makes possible a new world. Christians are supposed to put on new clothes, without first waiting to become or trying to become new wearers. The clothes are outlandish and noticeable. They signify Jesus Christ.

Ministers wear these funny collars. I wear one from time to time. When I have my collar on, I’m a better driver. Less of a jerk. It is silly, I know. But I don’t want people to think badly of ministers in particular and Christians in general just because I cut someone off or jumped a green light or didn’t stop for someone in a cross walk. Like it or not, people judge Jesus by what those who say they follow Jesus do.

Do everything in the name of Jesus, Paul tells us. We act in Christ’s name. When people know we are Christian, they judge Jesus by what we do.

Follow Jesus, says Paul. Be servile. Forgive others no matter what. Wear funny clothes. Change the world. Be changed.

Text: Luke 2:1-7
Other texts: Christmas Eve readings

There is usually no sermon preached on Christmas Eve at Faith. This is a short homily that opened the worship service.

It is tempting to embellish the story of the birth of Jesus. It is tempting to make more of it than it appears in the Bible. Which is not much. Luke’s Gospel contains an extensive story of Jesus’ birth, and in Luke the birth itself is given only two verses:

While they were [in Bethlehem], the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

But today is Christmas Eve, and what better time is there to give in to temptation? And the birth of any child—what better event to fire the imaginations of all people? The birth of a child seems a genuine miracle. How can any creature, let alone a human child, come into existence at all? How can those two cells that start it all up—even if one is from the Holy Spirit—how can they become the trillions of interacting, energetic, chaotic, coordinated sea of cells and chemicals that make a person? The mystery of God become human is matched by the mystery of humans becoming human.

And yet the birth—miraculous and full of extreme pain and joy as it must have been—is just a few verses, in the story of Jesus. And in the story of the lives of all of us.

We are about to hear eight readings that together tell the story of Christmas. The birth of Jesus is in the middle. The readings tell the particular cosmological story of the birth of God in the world. And they tell the wider story of what it is like to hope for a child, to know a child is coming, to have a child, to raise a child, to ponder the child’s future. The story is not so different from the story of your parents and you, or the story of you and your child.

Lutherans are adamant about the humanity of Jesus. One hundred percent God and one hundred percent human, we say. And so it is important that as we hear this story of the birth of Jesus, son of God, that we remember that it is exactly also the birth of Jesus, child of Joseph and Mary.

The Christmas Eve story starts with the prophets Isaiah and Micah. We live, as they say, in the world of darkness and light, of suffering and delight. There is a longing in us to renew the world. The yearning for a child is a incarnation of the hope we have that there is a future, one that is new and good. The longing in Isaiah is for a child, a wonderful counselor, a prince of peace, a restorer of the world. That longing is a grander version of what we hope for every child.

But then it becomes a particular child. The child you were, or are, or the child you have or hope to have. Mary, in the Gospel of Luke, hears that she will soon conceive. She is much perplexed, Luke reports. That is not a surprise. It is strange, in a way that is both urgent and nice, to think about giving birth. Our desire for the general future becomes more immediate, scary, and exciting.

Mary conceives. But before she gives birth, the family is dislocated because of events beyond their control. They leave their families of origin, and have to travel. Everything is a mess. They are poor, young, and in a strange place. There is no perfect time to have a baby. There is no perfect spot. Children are born every minute in this world into comfort and also into hardship. Jesus is born. There are no details. It is not any easy thing to come into the world. There is a lot of commotion. And then, if we are fortunate, relief and amazement and a quiet place—as for Jesus—for mother and child and father, too.

People are thrilled, Luke continues in his story. The shepherds come, like relatives from out of town to admire the baby. And, like relatives, off they go again. Already the tranquility of a new birth is replaced by expectations and requirements. Within eight days Jesus must be circumcised.

In the temple, though, a stranger named Simeon makes grand predictions. Why is it that a baby seems to be everybody’s business? He looks at Jesus, he picks him up—why do people feel they can do that—and praises him. But his predictions are ominous, too. In the Gospel of Matthew, the next to last reading, kings come to see the child. Is that weird? What are his parents to make of that?

The joy of being a parent is always mixed with wondering, with pondering as it says Mary does. What will happen now, what will happen next, what will happen in the years ahead? How will the world be and how will it be for my child? Mary and Joseph, for all the premonitions and announcements and auguries, cannot know what will happen to their son. They cannot predict what will happen to him, both the grand and the gruesome. And who would want to know for sure what will happen with our children? God will be with them, but the future is unwritten. And blessedly not ours to know.

It is time to celebrate the birth of Jesus who is the Messiah. Jesus Christ. We will have many occasions later to hear about his life, his ministry. About his miracles and teachings. And about his trial, and execution, and resurrection. And then can ponder the meaning of the Messiah, the divine son of God.

But now, tonight, we can remember that Jesus had human parents, lived in a family, had to learn to eat and walk and be potty trained and had conversations and get praised and scolded. Just like every other human child. All God, all human.

Text: Philippians 4:4–7

Christians, and especially Lutherans, have a bad habit of treating the apostle Paul as if he were a theologian. We hear Martin Luther quoting Romans and think that Paul’s most important contribution was to explain a doctrine of justification and grace.

But Paul was before all a missionary. He was in modern terms a church planter. Without Paul there would be no churches to preach the gospel. Though the center of the Jesus movement was in Jerusalem, the churches in the countryside—the ones that Paul founded—were the ones that spread it. There may be more to the story than we know, since our main source of information about this is the book of Acts and the letters of Paul. Acts tells a story of the early Christian church in which the heroes are Paul along with Peter. And of course what we get from Paul’s letters is information about the churches Paul started. Maybe there were dozens of Pauls of which we know nothing. There were certainly other preachers who talked about Jesus. We know this because Paul sometimes disparages them.

Paul was a convert to Jesus. He started out as a kind of sheriff or bounty hunter of Christians, but he had a life-changing experience and vision which made him join the people he had been hunting down. But he did more than join them, he became their chief marketer and promoter. He could have been a soul practitioner. Instead, he became a founder of churches. Paul evidently felt that to enjoy and live out the good news that he had found, one had to be part of a worshipping community.

Perhaps there is a way to follow Jesus all by yourself, but for sure that is not what Paul did. He spent his remaining life first calling together groups of men and women and then later encouraging them to stay together when they threatened to disintegrate or got into other trouble. The church for Paul was fundamental to following Jesus. Not the wide association of all followers, Church with a capital “C,” but the small, intimate groups of people who met in each other’s houses.

People like to say that they are spiritual but not religious. What this means, I think, is that they don’t like church. They can read the Bible and pray by themselves. But they don’t like church, for a whole bunch of reasons. Why, they wonder, should anybody come to church on a Sunday morning? Let’s talk about that today.

The root word for church in Greek, the language of the New Testament, is ekklesia. Like ecclesiastical, which just signifies churchy. The word ekklesia means “assembly,” or “gathering,” and it comes from two parts which together mean “called out” (ek: from, and kaleo: call). Both these parts are important to its meaning as church.

A church is a place to which you are called. No one really has to come to church anymore. It is not expected or required to get along in society. The time when every Christian felt obligated to be part of a worshipping community is gone. That means that probably you are here for a different reason.

One way to think about this is that you have chosen to be here. You are here because you intend to be here. One thing that the diverse people of Faith church have in common is that people here are by and large serious about their faith. Not that we are somber about it, and not that we are doubt-free (if that is even possible or desirable), and not that it is always joyful or fulfilling to be here, but what happens here is important to those who are here.

But another way, or maybe a related way, to think about this that you have been called here. A call is like an invitation but a little bit more. Something with weight to it, or a little edgy. A call is a little more compelling, more insistent. It is God who calls the church into being each week. It is God who makes that insistent offer.

A call has a direction to it. This can be exciting and it can be scary. In my experience, usually both. You are called from one thing into a new thing. There are four attributes of this call to assemble that shed light on why church matters.

First, we are called from our homes. Homes for many are our base. In our homes are people we love and maybe take care of or take care of us. The chairs are comfortable and there is food in the pantry. On a cold day, or on a morning after a late night, or when leaving home means lots of paraphernalia, staying home can seem pretty great. That’s why we are called out of our homes. Leaving home on a Sunday morning is an exercise in discipline, but it is also an exercise in freedom. We are called to leave our own selves behind, in a way. To let go of the homey things, the daily things that burden, distract, and occupy us so energetically.

Second, we are called to church. There is a purpose in God’s invitation. Church is a special, particular place designed for worship. It is a place that reminds us to praise God and gives us some tools to do that. A place that provides nourishment to us in the form of readings, sermons, and sacraments. A place of forgiveness and one that does not shame. And a place in which what we most care about can be expressed out loud.

Third, we are called one by one. Each person comes by her or himself. Even when we come as couples or families. The call to you to be here is a call to you alone. You, as you stand with God at the moment. You in the life you are leading right now, this minute. God’s call is not a general one. If it were, why would you pay attention to it? You are called here because God invites you here now. You are here because you have answered it this day.

And fourth, we are called together. Church is a community of people. People who have agreed to both admonish and comfort one another. Pray for one another. Ask for help and offer it. Who can be sociable or private, funny or grave. People who will accept and love one another unconditionally as a discipline of faith. And people who, like you, have responded to a call.

Martin Luther was opposed to private communion. In his time priests visited rich people who did not want to be bothered by coming to church. Luther said that this violated Jesus’ commandment regarding the Lord’s Supper. Luther said that when Jesus said “do this” (“do this in remembrance of me”), he meant not only the eating of bread and the drinking of wine, but the gathering as well. The communion is a communion not only with God but with other disciples, other followers, of Christ. And gathering and the sharing of the meal with others were essential parts of it.

Many years ago, as the way I stood with God seemed to be changing, I went on a spiritual retreat. And while preparing for it, I wrote three questions in my journal: Who is Jesus? Who am I? and What should I do—what is my obligation to others? Those are the questions that crowd asks John in today’s Gospel reading. Those are always the questions of faith. They are important questions. Who is God? Who am I? What am I supposed to do?

The people who are drawn to this church—you and me—care about something. What happens here is important. There are a lot of great things that go on at Faith church. People like each other. We laugh quite a lot and talk even more. We pray for one another. We cook great food and do fun things. We admire and respect and have affection for each other. Those things are really good. But what makes this a church is that God is important to us, that we need to know God, and that we find this place helpful to our longing.

Paul was a pragmatist. He started churches because he thought they were the best way to spread good news, to strengthen the resolve of new followers of Jesus, and to transmit the benefits of Christ. They were spiritual and religious. As in Paul’s time, each church is a mystery and a blessing, called into being by God and both enjoyed and sustained by those who hear and respond. For that, today, we give God thanks.