Day1 Weekly Radio Broadcast - Day1 Feeds

  Like many clergy; my work entails working with people of all ages--that often includes children--even young children. We have a pre-school at St. Martin's in Houston where I serve. I make an effort to roam the halls at least once a week or so. All kind of interesting things happen to me during these encounters--sometimes a smile, sometimes an unsolicited hug and often a question or two. Not too long ago, I was walking down the hall and I was stopped by one of our little ones--a small tyke, not yet old enough to read. She pointed at me and said, "Father Levenson...why do you dress so funny?" I told her, "Well, I am a priest and this is my 'uniform,' so to speak. The way a doctor wears a white coat and a stethoscope, a fireman wears a uniform and so on; and this is what 'I' wear." And then she pointed to my collar and said, "Well what's that! It looks like it would hurt!" I told her it was my collar, it was made out of plastic, and I took it off. I told her she could even touch the embossed letters on the back of the collar. While she was doing so, I said, "Do you know what those letters read?" And she said, "Yes, of course I do! Kills ticks and flees for up to six months!" You know, what we wear on the outside says a great deal about who we are on the inside. If I was a banker, I might wear a suit and tie every day. If I was a policeman, I would don that uniform. If I liked to play tennis, you might see me in a knit shirt and white shorts. The same is true of our actions. 

The humorist Judith Viorst shares in her book How Did I Get to be Forty and Other Atrocities--she writes: I've finished six pillows in Needlepoint, And I'm reading Jane Austen and Kant, And I'm up to the pork with black beans in Advanced Chinese Cooking. I don't have to struggle to find myself For I already know what I want. I want to be healthy and wise and extremely good-looking. I'm learning new glazes in Pottery Class, And I'm playing new chords in Guitar, And in Yoga I'm starting to master the lotus position. I don't have to ponder priorities For I already know what they are: To be good-looking, healthy and wise. And adored in addition. I'm improving my serve with a tennis pro,

  Picture in your mind a freckle-faced, redheaded young boy named Joey. Joey is all of about 8 years old and has been taking piano lessons for about a year. Joey has gotten reasonably proficient at plinking out "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" and is slowly moving on to slightly more challenging pieces. His hope is that one day he will be a reasonably decent piano player--someone who can accompany a Christmas carol sing-a-long over the holidays or maybe learn to play some favorite movie songs from Harry Potter or something. So, imagine Joey's reaction if one day his piano teacher sat him down on the piano bench, looked Joey straight in the eye and said, "Joey, unless your ability to play the most challenging Chopin Etudes exceeds that of Vladimir Horowitz, the greatest pianist of all time, then there really is no sense in your playing the piano at all." Well, now, surely this would widen young Joey's eyes. And once the depth of this demand began to sink in, Joey would almost certainly despair and consider giving up on the piano altogether. "Do not think that I came to get rid of God's Law" Jesus says in Matthew 5, verse 20. "No, I came to fulfill it such that if your own righteousness does not exceed that of the Pharisees and the teachers of the Law, then you most assuredly are not going to be part of my kingdom." This, too, must have widened the eyes of the disciples when Jesus spoke this fairly early on in the Sermon on the Mount. After all, no one was better at law-keeping than the Pharisees. They were to the Law what Wolfgang Puck is to gourmet cooking, what Rene Fleming is to opera singing, what Johnny Carson was to late-night television: they were the best. You can't top them.

  It was my first day as a parent at a Georgetown toddler's playgroup. We had done playtime, snack time, circle time and now it was playground time. I started talking to a mother whose daughter was about the same age as mine. Within a few minutes of talking to her, she started to complain to me about how stressful her life was right now. Stressful not because of work demands, toddler sleep issues, or health concerns. No, stress because she just had too many houses. Eight houses, to be exact! I tried to figure out what the most appropriate response would be to this strange stranger. This was a horrible caricature played out in real life. It was something you would see depicted in a New Yorker magazine cartoon--two moms at the playground fence complaining about their latest first-world problem. It is funny and jarring and unbelievable all at the same time.  That is what today's parable is for me as well--funny, jarring, and unbelievable. This parable is a caricature of both the rich and the poor. The rich man in the story isn't just rich--he is over the top--this guy dresses only in regal clothes--in royal purple hues and fine linens--he only does fine dining and banquet feasts. And the poor man isn't just poor; he's dirt poor. He is crippled and starving and lying at the rich man's gate. He is covered in sores and is being licked by savage dogs. He is unclean, a total outcast, desperate even for the scraps from the rich man's table. The rich man goes past the gate each day, but somehow he never notices this poor, desperate soul. Both of these men die--the rich man is buried and ends up being tortured in hell, and the poor man is carried away by angels and welcomed to the heavenly banquet table. Death to the poor man is a blessing; death to the rich man is a curse. Their worlds were incredibly close yet utterly separate.

  Come by here, my Lord, come by here....Oh Lord, come by here. When you live in New York City, you pretty much expect the unexpected when you sit down in a taxi. In fact, they've built a whole TV show on this very premise. It's called "Taxicab Confessions." People share their deepest, darkest secrets with a cab driver they hope they'll never see again. You don't know what's gonna unfold when you crawl inside. You just need to be ready. On November 9th, the day after the presidential election, I sat down in a cab and I've got to tell you: I was shellshocked ... like nearly every American, however they voted. The driver Mauricio asked how I was doing and, at first, I couldn't even find the words. And then I couldn't stop. I was scared at the forces of hatred America had now unleashed. I was sad, as a black woman, to see Obama's legacy so gleefully reversed. And I was disappointed at just how deep the fault lines separating us run. Mauricio listened. He nodded, like a good confessor. And then, I want you to know, he peered in that rearview mirror and gave me a talking to, the kind your grandmama gave when she caught you moping around her kitchen. "I've seen a lot of people today," he said, "and they're all sad," "People in my cab are sad. People in my neighborhood are sad. Yes, we're immigrants. Yes, we're poor. But here's what I told them and I'm telling you: 'I am not afraid. You can't be afraid either.'"

  "Epiphany." We celebrate a holiday with that name on January 6; and since this is the Second Sunday after Epiphany, we are getting used to the word, or if it is familiar, we are refreshing our understanding of it. We can't say that "Epiphany" is much used and heard outside of church, although now and then an excited writer or actor will reveal that he or she experienced an "epiphany." If we spend a moment discussing it, we are not wasting time, as if with an idle scholarly diversion. No, it helps us to crack open today's crowded and rich text from the Gospel of John and, along with that, to ponder the decisive turn in Christian history and Christian faith signaled by "Epiphany." We might simply have passed the word by, noting it the way we see a notice on a church bulletin board outside a sanctuary. But now we are, as it were, invited in to ponder it and let what the word means stand a chance of changing our lives. As trackers of words usually do, we open a dictionary or google the word. We read what is called the "simple definition" for Epiphany. It tells us that "epiphany is a Christian festival . . . in honor of the coming of the three kings to the infant Jesus Christ." And then there is another definition. An epiphany is also "a moment in which we suddenly see or understand something in a new or very clear way." Our text today will help us do just this. Reading on, refreshed by a definition and before we hurry away from the dictionaries, we learn, or re-learn, that behind the word "epiphany" is a Greek word which tells us that it refers to an "appearance" or a "manifestation." Even deeper behind that is the Greek word for "show." The Gospel chosen for this day helps us "suddenly . . . to understand" the coming and meaning of Jesus in a very clear way. It is a time when we team up with the "three kings" in the Gospel story to have Jesus "shown" to us and the nations.

  A man from Good Shepherd, the church I'm serving in Minneapolis, told me that he and his twin boys were watching a football game together. The boys noticed and commented on the tattoos of many of the players. It opened up a wonderful conversation for them. Bill, their father, talked about the stories; all those tattoos have stories with them. Ask someone the story of their tattoos; most love to tell those stories. I know I sure do! I have two small tattoos. One is a rose on the top of my left foot. I love it when people ask me about it. When my children were teenagers and we were still living in Atlanta, they gave me a rosebush for Mother's Day one year. My son's words when they gave me this bush, were, "Mom, you're the rose in a world of thorns." Aww--that was so sweet! And that is a story worth a permanent, never-to-be-removed mark on my body! A little P.S. Neither one of my children remembers giving me that rosebush, and my son does not remember saying those words to me. I think they think I was dreaming this whole thing...and, frankly, given their teenage years, that I was dreaming it probably makes more sense--but it's what this mother remembers, and that's my story and I'm stickin' to it! So back to the football game! Bill, the wise father that he is, used this conversation with his boys about stories and tattoos as an opportunity to remind them of their baptisms and of God's story in their lives through their baptisms. He said to them, "We have our own tattoos, you know. You are marked with the cross of Christ in your lives--forever."

  Happy New Year! Ever heard the name Howard Thurman? He was an extraordinary academic, teacher and preacher of the Christian faith. A Floridian. Some folks say that he is among America's greatest mystics. I heard an audio of him speaking at a college graduation once. Graduation speakers have a tough task. People want wise words about life, learning, even love. And all of this with a good dose of humor. It's sort of like a New Year's Day sermon! In the cadence of a loving grandfather, in his beautiful round bass voice, what he said has attached itself to me. Spoke to me. Called my name. Blessed me. Maybe even made me new. He said, "There's something in every one of you that waits and listens for the sound of the genuine in yourself." He said the sound of the genuine "...is the only true guide you will ever have. And if you cannot hear it, you will all of your life spend your days on the ends of strings that someone else pulls." Thurman went deep. Down into the heart of things. Down into what can make our New Year a happy and even a holy year. What is the sound of the Genuine? It's just a way of talking about God...the most genuine thing there is. The most whole. The most authentic. 100%real. God. Superior in consciousness. Matchless in knowing. Source of all there is. Author of the visible and the invisible. More ubiquitous than mass or gas or space. Not the "unmoved mover" as Aristotle believed, but the most "moved mover" as Rabbi Heschel taught. God of all things.

  On Christmas Eve when I was 23, my wife and I traveled to Bethlehem from our apartment in Jerusalem. We gathered with hundreds under a clear canopy of stars at the place where Jesus was born. We sang hymns, listened to a preacher or two, and of course, read the entire narrative from the Bible. Joseph and Mary away from home; Jesus born in a barn; shepherds startled by angels; and wealthy wise men bringing their gifts on that first Christmas night. This is OUR story: the Christian story: the birth of Jesus. As the gospel writer described it so many years ago: "And there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed." This is the time of year for OUR story. We read it, we sing it, we perform it, we preach it and color it, and observe it. In every way you can image, we recreate this story and cast it in every direction as the core and content of our Christian faith. This is our story. "And she brought forth her firstborn son, wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger." We celebrate it this week, this season. Advent, we call it, the coming of the Messiah, the birth of Jesus, the fulcrum, we believe, upon which all of history turns. These stories that makes all other stories matter. On that Christmas Eve 43 years ago, we were given a nativity set. It was simple, unadorned, unpolished, inexpensive I am sure. But it is a treasure to us, and every year at Christmas we unpack it and display it in a prominent place. It's not all there anymore. One shepherd and two sheep, plus an animal that may be a donkey. Joseph we have and three wise men. But missing is the manger, and Mary. Plus, we have no Jesus piece. Can it count as a nativity set if there is no Jesus? We like to think he grew up with the kids and now travels with them.

  At an anxious moment for the city, the Lord gives the king a sign that he is master of the situation. Isaiah makes four predictions: Of a certain woman, that she is pregnant; of her child, that it will be a boy; that his name will be Immanuel; and, crucial to the king, that before this boy knows please from thank you, the enemies who have made the city anxious will have withdrawn. And it was so. In Matthew, we read of the woman, that her name was Mary; of the boy, that he is Jesus, Immanuel, God with us. Seven hundred years before the fact, Isaiah had predicted Christmas. I love Matthew's interpretation. I believe it too. In novels, short and long term meanings are not mutually exclusive. "Foreshadowing," we call it. As that technique is in an author's repertoire, so it is in God's. So we have short and long-term interpretations of this passage. The second magnifies the first. Christmas speaks to a whole world's anxiety. God has given us a sign. Last summer I saw Captain Fantastic, a movie about a father who took his family back to nature. By day, he teaches his children to live by their skill and wits from the forests and the streams; by night, under lamplight, they read Einstein, Marx and Dostoevsky. I went in thinking of Thoreau and Swiss Family Robinson. I went out thinking of Richard Dawkins, because the movie wore contempt for religion on its sleeve. Ours especially: the Christians in Captain Fantastic have all the charm of Harry Potter's aunt and uncle. So in lieu of Christmas, Dad and the kids observe Noam Chomsky Day. One of his sons protests: Why can't we just have Christmas like everybody else? The father retorts: Who is more worthy of commemoration, a great humanitarian--or a magic elf?

  Our scripture reading today drops us into the middle of an intimate encounter between two extraordinary women: There is the elderly, once-barren Elizabeth and her newly expectant young cousin Mary. As Luke tells it, God is at work through the lives of both women and their words express nothing but joy. Our reading begins in the middle of the conversation. Elizabeth, touched by the Holy Spirit, has already cried out in delight, offering words of praise: "Blessed are you among women! And blessed is the fruit of thy womb!" Mary responds in the form of a song, "My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name." You may recognize this as the opening words of the Magnificat, Mary's song of praise. Her beautiful words are surprising yet familiar, for though her pregnancy is without precedent, her words place her in a long tradition. As Mary sings the Magnificat, we hear echoes of the songs of other faithful women, like Miriam and Deborah and Hannah. Biblical scholar Phyllis Trible notes that this is a sign of how "deeply imbedded is Mary's story in the traditions of her people." (The Living Pulpit, vol. 10, No. 4, October-December 2001, page. 8). Mary goes on to tell of all the great and glorious things God has done. He has brought down the powerful and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.

  This may only be the second Sunday of Advent, but I am already over Christmas. Like everyone else, I get caught up in the spirit of the "holiday" season--the shopping, the baking, the decorating, the parties--while simultaneously trying to hold a quiet space for the season of Advent. Honestly, it feels like a losing battle: even in church, there are people itching to sing "O Come All Ye Faithful," and it is only December 4th. It is a stressful time of year for many people. According to the National Institutes of Health, Christmas is a time of year when people report a higher incidence of depression and anxiety. The underlying causes of this uptick in sadness include less sunlight, unrealistic expectations, financial pressure, and excessive commercialization. The report also said many people felt increased pressure to be perfect during the holiday season. So right when we're all starting to feel overwhelmed by this impending holiday, who should show up but John the Baptist. This is where we always find him, this Second Sunday of Advent, waist deep in the muddy Jordan, dressed in nothing but skins and a belt, ranting like a street preacher: Repent! For the kingdom of heaven has come near! He turns up every year at this time, like a relative we've been avoiding. You know the one--that person you have to invite to the family Christmas party even though no one really wants to see him and he'll probably bring a fruitcake...again.

  Advent is a time of new beginnings. A beginning to the church year, a beginning of the Holiday Season, a beginning of the end of the calendar year--what were my resolutions again? This year I wanted to honor my body more: eating better, exercising, reducing stress, and solidifying habits for a healthy future. One thing I learned about was music: I need music. If I'm going to walk every day, or spend time in the kitchen preparing healthy foods, or shifting my mind away from distractions and into the present, it requires a soundtrack. "Epic Movie Soundtracks" are my favorite stations for writing days--the work I'm doing takes on a whole new level of importance when the theme from Star Wars is playing in the background. When I'm exercising, 80's pop gets my heart rate going. When we turn to the psalms, we reach for the spiritual volume knob, to hear the musical message of the saints before us. Though we don't know the tunes anymore, this poetry incites a rhythm within us that exceeds the need for notes on a page. Psalm 122 is a pilgrimage song, probably sung by the caravans as they made their way into Jerusalem on foot, seeing that holy city on a hill, and getting so excited for the long journey to be over soon. If the life of discipleship is also comparable to a journey, then Psalm 122 articulates that moment when you can see the city lights of God's arrival ahead of you. You might still be in the suburbs, but home is coming soon. In the darkest season of the year, we begin advent to remind ourselves and the world that God's salvation comes in a tiny baby born into unspeakable poverty, that victory and "arrival" will have a hint of surprising bitterness to it.

  A parent's hope for their child is that he or she will find a place in the world, a place to belong. Sometimes we communicate that through expectations that our son or daughter will be this or that, marry a person who holds a particular set of values or achievements. When life is brought into the world, it comes with all kinds of spoken or unspoken expectations. The night before my daughter was born, my spouse and I prayed aloud, "God, I hope she will be weird like us." We hoped that she would find a place of belonging in our family, appreciate her dad's nerdy sense of humor, move her body to the strange folk music her mother played in the house, learn to appreciate the kind of life we hold sacred. Reign of Christ Sunday is the fulfillment of expectation, a fulfillment perhaps most deeply experienced, not by human beings or the church, but by God. We participate in this day, not as a time to say, "Look what we did! Christ's work is completed!" but to see and celebrate a different kind of power ruling this world. The gospel lessons for this Sunday are from Luke 1:68-79, which includes Zechariah's prophecy at the birth of his son John the Baptist, and then Luke's account of the crucifixion in the 23rd chapter. These passages are two gospel bookends of God's power reigning in its most unusual way. We know the story of Jesus began long before John the Baptist became a twinkle in his parents' eyes, and God's power continues to resurrection and beyond. But at these critical points in the story, we, God's children, find our place in God's values.

  The journey had been long. Forcibly removed from their homeland of Jerusalem, driven to live in exile in Babylon for nearly seventy years, the people of Judah are now, at long last, beginning their return home. They have such hope. Surely all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.   And yet, in the years following their return, God's beloved people find all is not well. They are bone-weary exhausted from their exile, an exile whose losses and fears permeate their every breath, an exile that literally overturns the very ground of their being--family, land, temple, culture, life.   In their release from exile, in their return to Jerusalem, to the very place for which they had yearned for generations, the exhaustion and the confusion of God's beloved people somehow does not begin to dissipate, but rather deepens. Why is this so? Why is it that rather than freedom, they find oppression? Rather than joy, they find broken heartedness? Rather than peace they find injustice? Rather than flourishing they find their lives stunted in every way--body, mind, spirit, family, community? Why is there fear so deep they feel it in the very marrow of their bones day and night? Was this not the holy land of God? Was not this place, Jerusalem, filled with the presence of God? And if so, why do God's beloved people continue to experience chaos and fear so deep that even to imagine or to hope for something else seemed beyond even the most desperate of grasping hands and hearts. Shouldn't they be flourishing? Building and planting, inhabiting and celebrating? Living? Isn't God here in their midst? And shouldn't that change everything?