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On a surprisingly warm-for-Chicago April day, our fourth-grade teacher took us to a nature preserve just outside the city. Mr. Smith was a sensitive, tall African-American man who had gone to teacher's college in Mississippi with my Aunt Verline. While we had lunch outside, Mr. Smith took a call inside the park office. With tears streaming down his crumpled face, he told us that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., had been assassinated. I had watched the Civil Rights movement unfold on our family television. Marchers singing across the bridge from Selma to Montgomery to demand the right to vote moved me; the visible signs of hatred--batons connecting with flesh; hoses turned on women, men, and children; dogs snarling with teeth bared--gave me nightmares. I had seen faces twisted with hatred, mouths snarling, snapping, hurling venomous speech like barks. My siblings and I had been taught in Sunday school and at the dinner table, "Judge ye not lest ye be judged;" but I found myself wondering in my ten-year-old heart, "What is wrong with these people? Why do they hate with such hatred? Do they worship the same God as we do? Why kill a man? Is the dream of a new society so threatening that it needs to die?" Our class memorized King's "I Have a Dream" speech, but I was a young woman when I read these words from Where Do We Go from Here. "The Movement has got to begin to ask questions about the whole society. We are called upon to help the discouraged beggars in life's market place. But one day we must come to see that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring. Now, when I say question the whole society, it means ultimately coming to see that the problem of racism, the problem of economic exploitation, and the problem of war are all tied together. These are the triple evils that are interrelated."

On the first Sunday following January 6 every year, churches around the world observe something called The Baptism of Our Lord Sunday; and as soon as we pastors get those words out of our mouths, you can see the shades coming down for some folks.  I understand that.  They are asking a couple of reasonable questions:  "Isn't this just some ancient ritual on a liturgical calendar that really doesn't mean much to a modern world?"  And the second question is just as serious:  "In truth, in our world, why does Baptism even matter at all?" And so, Baptism gets relegated to funny stories or cute photo opps.  A family is riding home from church on Sunday noon.  Their four-year-old son in the back seat of the car was baptized that morning.  Suddenly, midway home, he bursts into tears.  When his parents ask what on earth is wrong, he sniffles out the answer:  "The minister who baptized me said I would be brought up in a Christian home.  But I want to stay with you guys!"  We all know the jokes. And we all know the parental requests when the babies are brought forth in their new frilly white outfits which mom and dad call "christening dresses," despite the fact that most of us in the Protestant tradition don't "christen" at all.  To "christen" is to give a name.  We assume the parents have already done that. We "baptize."  But it doesn't really matter because the requests are not theological, are they?  They are instead, "Reverend, may we get a few pictures of you holding the baby?"  "Christen," "Baptize," who cares?  It's really a photo opp.

Today in many parts of the Christian household we celebrate the Feast of Epiphany and we hear this passage from Matthew's Gospel--the story of wise men from the East searching out and finding the Christ Child. The word 'epiphany' simply means 'showing' or 'shining forth.' Divine light shines forth from this Child. But it should not so much be understood as the appearance of God as the transparence of God. The divine light that shines in the Child is not a foreign light to the earth. It is the Light at the heart of all life. It is the Light from which all things come. If somehow this Light were extracted from the universe, everything would cease to exist. So this is a story about the Light at the heart of everything, the Light at the heart of you, the Light at the heart of me. Look around you now at the people next to you, at the life forms growing from the earth, at the radiance of the sun or the whiteness of the moon. And look also into your own heart. There in all things is the Light. Maybe it is deeply hidden under confusions or falsenesses. But it is there, waiting to come forth anew. In the Christ Child this Light shines. He is our epiphany, our showing. In him we see the Light of life. I am reminded of the story that my rabbi brother, Nahum, likes to tell. It is the story of the burning bush in the Hebrew Scriptures in which Moses sees a bush on fire, but the bush is not consumed. Nahum says that the important thing about this story is not that the bush is burning but that Moses notices, because every bush is burning, every bush is on fire with the divine presence, everything in the universe shines because God is at the heart of it. So it is in our epiphany story. It is a story that invites us to open our eyes to the light that is everywhere. 

Every day in America 2,300 people are reported missing! You heard it right: 2,300 are reported missing every day. Some are displaced by hurricanes and others are abducted by a distraught parent. An old man, his mind long gone, simply walks away, and teenagers, tired of abuse and chaos at home, they flee for what they suppose will be a fresh start. Some people fake their death, and others are taken with criminal intent. There is a military category: missing in action. Amelia Earhart may be the most famous missing person in American history. But one spring day many years ago Joseph turned to Mary and said, "Where is Jesus?" That set in motion, not a tragedy, but a teachable moment into the mystery of God's dealing with the mind and imagination of kids. Jesus was 12 years old when it happened, a pivotal year for kids. No more childhood. Hello, adolescent! Time for bar mitzvah and confirmation classes, leaving behind elementary school, launching into middle school. "What are you going to be when you grow up?" You ask a twelve-year-old and what do you hear? A singer. I want to be a farmer. One public school teacher said to me, "I teach in the west end of Louisville and all of my boys want to play professional ball. My friend Rick Stewart said recently, "Audrey wants to be either a zoo keeper or the president of the United States. But she is only 8." So we shrug it off with a smile. But some 12-year-olds are already thinking seriously about their future. Steve Jobs, for instance, wrote about his early fascination with computers. "I was 13 years old," he says in his end-of-life autobiography, "and already knew what I wanted to do." He did it, and the whole world is glad.

There are experts in nearly every field of human endeavor.  There are expert wine tasters, expert roof repairers, expert balloonists, expert heart surgeons, expert fly fishermen.  And I would gladly take the advice of these folks, should I find myself in need of it.  So when I was given advice some time ago that was said to come from an expert in a field I had never heard of, it gave me pause.  I hadn't known about the need for this expertise, but here it is.  An expert stringer of pearls is said to offer this advice: "Pearls should be restrung once a year, and if you wear them a lot, twice a year."  That's good advice, I guess, though I don't happen to have pearls valuable enough to worry about restringing. My pearls, such as they are, are not so much the product of an irritant to an oyster.  I would say my most beautiful and precious pearls are more the product of experiences, and sometimes irritants, that resulted in my growing something new within me.  And I would guess we all own pearls like those.  They're hard to come by and very precious, aren't they?  So when I heard the insightful comment by the expert stringer of pearls, I figured that the comment must have application for us all.  It's true, isn't it, that our hard-won pearls of wisdom, our beliefs, and our experiences need some periodic reconsideration or restringing?  They need it and deserve it, being the pearls they are, if they are to be preserved.

Well, with Christmas nearly here, there is probably not one among us whose thoughts don't stray towards Bethlehem with real longing. Do you want to go to Bethlehem? Well, getting there hasn't always been easy. Back in the 1980's when I first started leading groups on pilgrimage to the Holy Land, getting to Bethlehem required disembarking our tour bus at an armored check point outside the town, having our passports checked, then walking a full block under the watchful eye of heavily armed Israeli soldiers. Only after successfully navigating this pulse-quickening walk could we board a Palestinian bus to finally take us into Bethlehem. In the 1990's the process changed a bit. Our tour bus still had to stop at a checkpoint before entering the city, but then instead of requiring passengers to get off, armed soldiers got on. They walked up and down the aisles checking passports and asking questions. After a few anxiety-producing minutes, when the all clear was given, we could drive to the other side of the checkpoint, change buses, and enter Bethlehem. When we last traveled to Bethlehem, just last winter, the process of getting there had eased dramatically. There was no passport check on the way in. Nor did soldiers board the bus. We simply drove to a kiosk where our bus driver spoke to a guard for a few moments. Then we were waved on, with the greatest impediment being the speed bump that lies at the gate of the twenty-five foot cement wall which now sadly separates Israel from the West Bank. And that is how you get to Bethlehem these days, at least physically.

The musical "Godspell" made popular today's Advent theme, "Prepare ye the way of the Lord." As a second flame is kindled in our Advent wreath, we are invited as a story-formed people to listen carefully to our story about a voice crying in the wilderness: "live prepared." Advent is a state of mind as well as a season in the church year.  As a state of mind, Advent is not intended to be preparation for Christmas, the first coming of the Christ child. It is rather a season in which we make present again that miraculous event as we prepare for Christ's second coming, his return to complete what he began long ago. Recall that this Jesus, born more than two thousand years ago, entered history to proclaim and witness to that long awaited and hoped for coming of God's reign. The long awaited and hoped for kingdom of God was no longer a future promise. It was a present reality, it had come, it was in sight, it had been birthed and established. Those who believed him were to pray, "Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as in heaven," and then with God's help, to act as if it has come and thereby cooperate with God so it might come in its fullness, in God's good time. Advent therefore is a season which offers us the opportunity to pray for Christ's return and prepare for his second coming, when the world as we know it will end and creation as God intended it is brought to fruition. And so in this second Sunday in the season of Advent we focus our attention on the prophetic voice of John the baptizer who invites us to live prepared for Christ's second coming. How we ask? And John answers, "Repent." Now there was a time when to repent implied expressing deep sorrow and regret for our sins. With this understanding in mind, Advent, cloaked in purple, became much like Lent, a second penitential season.

A number of years ago when I was serving a church in another town, a man stopped me after the morning worship service and asked if he could make an appointment to see me. Then he told me that he had a message for me from the Lord. As I hesitated I noticed members watching and listening; and in a weak moment, I offered to see him early on Monday morning. The next day he showed up, bright and early. As I sized him up, he seemed to be a nice-enough fellow--polite, soft-spoken, and well-groomed. He thanked me for agreeing to see him and said that the Lord had told him to give the message to every preacher in town. I tried to hide my disappointment that the message from the Lord was not just for me. Then he told me that the Lord wanted me to know three things. First, there is no "pre-tribulation rapture" as depicted in the Left Behind books. He said that the Lord doesn't know where people got that idea. I was sort of relieved to hear that. Second, he said that the preachers need to be talking now about what the scriptures say about the second coming. And thirdly, he said--and I quote--"There will be grave consequences for the world if the church does not wake up to this topic." It all sounded pretty ominous to me. With that, the man got up, thanked me for my time, and headed out the door. To be honest with you, I soon forgot about that conversation...until late that November when he sent me an email reminding me of our visit and the words the Lord told him to tell me. He encouraged me to study what the scriptures say about the second coming and to preach on that.

As we walked through the front yard up to the three familiar brick steps that led up to the front door of the house, I always tried to peak into the sunroom to see if I could catch a glimpse of my grandfather sitting at his desk.  It was where he spent most of his time.  We would then knock on the door and wait, for it takes a while to answer the door when you are over ninety years old; but as soon as the door opened, I knew exactly what my great grandfather was going to say.  "Are the boys from Richmond County finally here?"  We had driven all the way from Augusta, Georgia, to Atlanta, just a little over two hours away; but he always made it sound like we had driven from the other side of the country. Paw-paw always teased us to make us feel welcome, and it worked.  He gave us a hard time because we were from Augusta, as if it was a far away land.  He probably teased us because we liked him teasing us, so each time we stepped over the threshold of the house and whenever we left, I can still hear his voice, "You boys are alright, even though you are from Richmond County." I knew he was just teasing, but every time we left the house, I always wondered what it meant to be from a place.  How does a place shape us?  How does it get deep down inside of our bones, where it is always a part of us?  No matter where I go, I will always be a boy from Georgia.  Our place says something about who we are.

One of the questions most frequently asked of any stage actor is, "How do you remember all of those lines?"  This is especially true with me, given that the "script" I have memorized and perform is the entire GOSPEL OF JOHN, word for word.  Following a performance of John's Gospel in Chicago a few years ago, I was approached by a somewhat speechless fireman.  He grabbed hold of my arm and stared at me.  Finally, he asked the question: "How did you do that?  How do you remember all of those words?"  I embraced him and replied, "What are you talking about?  How do you run into a burning building when everyone else is running out?" My point was that God has most graciously given each and every one of us our own unique gifts.  One of mine happens to be the ability to memorize large amounts of scripture and then perform them in churches and theaters throughout the country.  I always hesitate to use the word 'perform" or "performance" in describing what I do, because I feel that my work is more accurately a proclamation of God's word.  But if you were to tell people, even people of faith, to come and hear a "proclamation," nobody would show up!  I have performed THE GOSPEL OF JOHN just over 600 times in the past twelve years.  The performance, which includes a fifteen-minute intermission, lasts about two and a half hours.  This means I've spent roughly 81,000 minutes, or almost two months, of my life standing in front of gathered communities and proclaiming God's word.

'I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.' If you listen to the critiques of religion in the world today, they fall into two basic categories.  The first criticism is that religious people are hypocritical.  This is true.  We are hypocrites.  We are sinners.  We are fallen beings who belong to messed-up institutions.  We do not always (or even most of the time) live up to our highest ideals.  The interesting thing about this critique of religion is that--while it is accurate--it does not knock the pins out from under the faith.  Our holy book is full of stories of people who are not perfect and yet are summoned to work with God for the redemption of the world.  We may be sinners, but we are still called to give water to the thirsty, food to the hungry and comfort to the sick.  The second critique of religion is more straightforward and, potentially, more devastating.  It goes like this: religion is a lie.  Religion is untrue.  In the words of evolutionary biologist and atheist Richard Dawkins, religion is a collection of made-up-stories that have been passed down--from generation to generation--through the ages.  These stories have been around a long time, says Dawkins, but there is no evidence that they are scientifically or historically true.  To the contrary, religious people say things like: "The stones will shout out to declare the presence of God," but we all know that such talk is just plain silly. 

Why do people go to church?  Why do they embrace religion?  Why do they listen to religious radio programs? One of the common answers to these questions goes like this: "People are looking for something uplifting--something that will help them make it through another week."  My father put it this way, "The work week beats you down, so Sunday should lift you up.  Life is hard.  Faith is like a shot of adrenaline.  It gets you through!" Many of us agree, even though historically speaking, this view of Sunday morning is fairly new.  The Calvinists who settled this country did not think that the purpose of attending church was to get a boost to our wellbeing.  Instead, they spoke of moral obligation, the ordering of society, and fulfilling the commandment to keep the Sabbath. Down through the centuries, Christians have articulated all sorts of different reasons for belonging to a faith community.  In some settings, people have spoken, first and foremost, about church being a place where you can search for God, find a personal Savior, or at least, learn the content of the Christian faith.  Others emphasize their connection to a community of love and support.  Still others point to a liturgy: to their thirst for the sacraments, the music, and the prayers.  In every age, there have been those who have expected church to provide a moral compass for themselves or their children.  Yet, others indicate that they have sought out church because they long to be part of a prophetic community--a group dedicated to meeting human need: feeding the hungry, caring for the poor, reaching out to a broken world.

What a wonderful story!  A blind man, forced to beg because of his disability, hears that Jesus is coming.  He shouts out, "Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!"  Jesus hears him, calls him, heals him.  "Immediately, the man regains his sight and follows Jesus."  Isn't that the best story you've ever heard?  A story of restored sight, of one who advocates for himself despite all naysayers, a story of one who finds community in the companionship of Jesus' followers.  "Let me see again!" the blind man says.  And he does. So, here's my question:  Is seeing all it's cracked up to be?  I only ask because of what's been happening with Jesus' disciples to this point.  After half-healing another blind man a couple of chapters before--it takes two attempts to restore that person's sight--Jesus works just as hard to open the eyes of the disciples. In Caesarea Philippi, he tells them that "the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the religious authorities, and be killed, and after 3 days rise again."  Upon hearing this, Peter rebukes Jesus.  He cannot see. Then, passing on through Galilee, Jesus tells the disciples again that the Son of Man will be betrayed, killed, and will rise from the dead.  "But," Mark tells us, "they did not understand and were afraid to ask him."  They could not see. Yet again, as they are going up to Jerusalem--where he will be betrayed and killed--Jesus tries one last time to show the disciples what is about to transpire:  The Son of Man will be handed over.  He'll be killed.  He'll rise from the dead.

This past June, David McCullough Jr. gave a startling commencement address at Wellesley High School in Massachusetts, where he has been an English teacher for the last 26 years. He does not extol the virtues and achievements of his students; he does not heap the usual accolades upon them and send them off to an entitled future. Instead he tells them they are not special. They are not special because everyone is special.  When I am honest with myself, I admit to a recurring desire to be special, successful. I want to do something someone will notice, something that will make a difference, something that will merit a small headline somewhere. So I am troubled when I hear Mr. McCullough's words and when I read Jesus' response to the request of James and John, made as they travel the road to Jerusalem, on the way to the cross. Jesus is striding out ahead of the twelve. James and John catch up with him to ask a favor: "Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory." Jesus replies, "To sit at my right or left is not mine to grant. But you don't know what you're asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I drink or be baptized with the baptism with which I am baptized? You must be buried with me in order to live. You must drown in the deep waters of my love to be free from all that binds and destroys you." "We are able," James and John assure him, all too quickly, just as we can make and affirm our Baptismal Covenant in the Episcopal rite without considering its daunting implications. Persevere in resisting evil? Strive for justice and peace? Sure. No problem.

Have you ever tried to get ready to set out on a trip only to be interrupted over and over again?  It can be very frustrating as the deadline approaches and some pressing need grabs our attention.  There always seems to be a hundred things to do when we are about leave. The Gospel lesson from Mark 10 was just such a time for Jesus.  He is setting out on a journey and is stopped by a man with a pressing question.  How tempting it must have been for Jesus to push the question aside or to tell the man that he should listen more carefully as he spoke.  After all, there were other villages and other people waiting for Jesus; but Jesus, in his usually caring way, stopped and dealt with the man before him.  Unlike our world, which is too often caught up in numbers and bigness, Jesus saw each person as a precious creation of God. We can imagine that the man had perhaps been listening to Jesus teach.  Why else would he have bothered to approach Jesus?  He had probably been a part of the crowd that had listened to this new rabbi, perhaps amazed at the authority with which he taught, or at least the fresh approach that Jesus was offering on life and faith.  But now that he saw Jesus about to leave, he wanted Jesus to get to the bottom line.  What was the key part of these teachings that he could take with him and live a new and powerful way?  He wanted to get to the heart of what the Gospel was about.  He asks, "Good teacher, what do I have to do to inherit eternal life?"