Sermon — December 20, 2020

The Rev. Greg Johnston

About this time in December, about ten years ago, I decided that I was just going to start saying “yes” to things. Now, I’m an outgoing guy, but I’m a homebody and a rule-follower, and already by the summer before my freshman year of high school, the seniors on my cross-country team had nicknamed me “Gramps” for my attitude toward fun and shenanigans. But it was a few years later, I was in college, and I wanted to get out of my dorm room and my small circle of friends—to start saying yes to things, and see what happened.

So when, a few weeks later, a friend who lived down the hall from me invited me to a party, I said yes. It was not the sort of party I would normally go to—a Harvard Sailing Team party; I’ve since learned, by the way, that the Harvard Sailing Team is not quite as preppy as you’d think, but… is still pretty preppy—but I’d decided to say yes, and so, even though it was cold and dark I would rather have been at home, I went. And the moment I walked in, I saw a girl named Isabel from my economics class and standing next to her, by far the loveliest young woman I’d ever seen. So I walked over to them. Isabel and I said hi to each other, and then I turned to her friend.

“I’m Greg.”
“Hi, I’m Alice.”

“Where are you from, Alice?”

“New York.”

“Oh,” I joked, “so are you a Yankees fan?”

“No—Red Sox! My dad grew up in Cambridge.”

Love at first sight.

Needless to say, ten years later Alice and I are married, and Isabel’s our first child’s godmother and one of our best friends, whose marriage to another sailor I’ll be officiating at St. John’s this summer; they live down the street from us and sail out of Courageous now.

All of which is to say: Saying yes to something small can lead to something quite big.

Mary, of course, says “yes” to something big; to something huge. On faith alone, unable to understand how it’s going to work out but trusting in this angel’s word and in God’s love, Mary listens to what the angel has to say, and replies, “let it be with me according to your word.” (Luke 1:38) And “then,” and only then—only once she has agreed— “the angel departed from her.” (Luke 1:38) The angel comes not to announce an inevitability but to invite Mary into an absurdity: unmarried, inexperienced, vulnerable as she may be, to bear within her womb the living God.

This was a unique event, to say the least. But our mother Mary’s act of faith is a model for each one of us in our lives of faith. God speaks a holy word to each one of us, and invites us to carry it deep within ourselves; God plants a seed within us and waits to see what fruit we’ll bear. Again and again God invites us into a deeper relationship, a more mysterious journey, and waits, patiently, until we’re ready to say “yes.” And when we do—who knows where we end up?

So what does it take to say “yes” to God?

Well, first it takes the honest, humble recognition that we have only a very little idea what’s going on. “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you,” says the angel. (Luke 1:28) And Mary is “much perplexed”—“greatly troubled,” another translation goes (ESV)—and wonders, “What sort of a greeting is that?” (1:29) The angel tries to explain: Don’t be afraid, Mary, for you’ve found favor in God’s sight. You will conceive, and bear a son! And he will be named Jesus! And also, “Son of the Most High!” Oh, and the Lord God will give him the throne of David his father—you know, your great-great-great-great-great-grandfather-in-law—a throne that’s been empty for six hundred years. And Mary waits and nods while the angel declaims, and then cautiously asks: “But how will this be?” (Luke 1:34) Joseph and I, we haven’t, you know—? And the angel helpfully replies, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you.” (Luke 1:35)

What?

Gabriel is not making this very clear. But it never is, is it? We don’t ever hear God’s voice speaking clearly and directly to us. In fact, the moments when we think we know God’s will most confidently are often the moments when we’re wrong. But we do catch snippets through the static, hints of what God’s voice in our lives. And as long as we admit that we’re not sure what it means, and we’re not sure where it leads, we just might be ready to say yes.

But second—and this is important—we shouldn’t try to figure it out on our own. It takes a community to help us understand the invitation and to know how to react. The first thing Mary does is to take off and go to her cousin Elizabeth’s house, and stay with her for a while. Elizabeth, like Mary, is pregnant, awaiting a strange and holy birth—the birth of Jesus’ cousin John, who will one day be called “The Baptist.” Mary is young, Elizabeth is old; Mary is pregnant much sooner than she’d imagined, Elizabeth much later than she’d hoped; but together they will try to understand what God has in store for them and for their two remarkable sons.

There’s a reason we have things like a Rector Search Committee to call a new Rector, or discernment committees to help figure out whether a person is called to the priesthood. There’s a reason that we have churches, and not just individual spiritual lives. There’s a reason, in fact, that we have multi-generational churches, with people from all parts of our community, and not just niche lifestyle brands, with one church for families with young kids and another for retired folks and another for golf enthusiasts. It’s in our relationships across lines of difference that we come to understand our own calling most deeply. Elizabeth has lived many years, and Mary just a few. Elizabeth has long been married, and Mary’s just engaged. And their different perspectives help each one understand her own path. Our mentors and our friends, our communities and our families, help us understand what God is inviting us into and what it means to answer “yes.”

It’s been a sad week for St. John’s, with the news of Marie Hubbard’s death. I hope some of you can join us for her funeral service on Zoom tomorrow morning at 11. She was a true pillar of this church, a mentor and a friend and a teacher to many, a woman who’d lived and prayed in this place for some eight decades. We mourn her loss today. And we pray for her, in the sure and certain hope that one day we will see her again.

And it’s that third part of saying “yes” to God that can be the hardest: the waiting. We read this story from Luke’s gospel announcing Mary’s pregnancy on the Fourth Sunday of Advent, and then we celebrate Jesus’ birth on Thursday night. But we’ve traveled in time. This story takes place “in the sixth month” of the year (Luke 1:26)—that’s around March in the Jewish calendar, not June—and we can all do the math. December 25 minus nine months: March 25, or so; and indeed, on March 25 we celebrate the Annunciation. But we all know nine months is a long time to wait. Picture your life on March 25, 2020. How many lifetimes ago was that?

So as a dark year ends, and one that’s hopefully better begins, we make our resolutions for the year ahead. But we can do this as people of faith any time. We listen carefully for the word of God, inviting us into something new. We admit humbly that we don’t know what it means, that we don’t know where it leads, but we answer the call. We turn to our friends and our loved ones for guidance, we seek out the wisdom of those who’ve lived lives different from our own. And then we wait. We wait and wait and see what God will do. We wait, and watch, and grow, as the day draws near when something new will appear in our lives and they will change, forever.

So wait, these last five days of Advent, these last ten days of 2020; and watch; and wonder where it is that God’s inviting you to go in 2021. Because it’s not always easy to say yes. But when we do—we just might end up in love.

“For I am persuaded,” O God, “that your love is established for ever; *
you have set your faithfulness firmly in the heavens.” (Psalm 89:2)

Amen.

Sermon — December 13, 2020

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Rejoice always,
pray without ceasing,
give thanks in all circumstances;
for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.
(1 Thess. 5:16-18)

Have you ever heard of “Laughter Yoga”?

It’s no joke. It’s a serious, albeit playful, practice. Participants begin with clapping, stretching, and other exercises to loosen up, physically and socially.  They do some breathing exercises to prepare themselves. And then they laugh at nothing at all, and for no reason at all. The leader just begins—hahahahahahahahaha!—and everyone joins in.

The theory is simple, although maybe counterintuitive. Our emotions, according to psychologists, aren’t thoughts we have in our minds, or things we feel in our hearts; they are embodied states. If we embody a different emotion, we actually begin to feel it. If we tense up our muscles and scrunch up our faces, we feel worse. If we loosen out our limbs and force ourselves to laugh, we feel better. Psychologists have done dozens of studies along these lines; even something as simple as holding a pencil in your mouth in a way that forces your mouth into the shape of a smile has been shown to improve your mood!

Laughter yoga may sound like nonsense to you. But don’t worry. Science is on the case. One 2019 literature review and meta-analysis surveyed the many studies that have been done of laughter, concluding not only that “laughter-inducing therapies may improve depression, anxiety, and perceived stress,” but that things like laughter yoga that used forced, simulated laughter were actually more effective than spontaneous, humorous laughter; an hour of “laughter yoga” was something like twice as effective as an hour of sketch comedy as a treatment for depression, anxiety, or stress.[1]

There are a lot of difficult commandments in the New Testament. “Give to everyone who asks from you.” (Luke 6:30) “Be patient with everyone.” (1 Thess. 5:14) “Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Mark 12:31) But I think today’s epistle has one of the most difficult ones: “Rejoice always.” (1 Thess. 5:16)

It reminds me of a favorite saying of some of my family members, one which I’ve never liked: “Choose joy.” (Sorry, Mom, if you’re listening.) When I’ve been going through a rough time in life and heard the phrase “choose joy,” or seen it stamped across the cover of a book, I’ve always been tempted to reply like an elementary schooler: “I would if I could, but I can’t, so I won’t.” If I could just choose joy—if I could just choose to feel joyful—wouldn’t that be great?

It’s been a difficult year, and like many people, I’m more inclined to gripe than to rejoice. I’ve spent most of 2020 either sad or angry, either mourning all the big and small losses of this year, or raging against all the institutions and leaders who I think have let us down. It feels satisfying, at times, to dwell on this anger; it gives me a sense of satisfaction to mull on how right I am and how wrong the school system, or the library, or the government is.

“Rejoice always,” “give thanks in all circumstances,” is a high bar in any year. But this year? Impossible.

It’s worth recalling, for a moment, who Paul was writing to, and why, and when. The first letter to the Thessalonians is the earliest part of the New Testament. It’s written before the Gospels, before the Acts of the Apostles, before any of Paul’s other letters. Paul writes it to a church who are grieving, and anxious, and beginning to despair. It’s been three decades since Jesus died and rose again. These early Christians thought the world was going to change, and it has—kind of. But mostly, it’s just grinding on. Their friends and mentors in the church are aging and dying. They’re beginning to face persecution. But mostly they’re just enduring the tedium and disappointment of a life lived waiting for a future that never quite arrives.

And Paul writes to them, “Rejoice always… Give thanks in all circumstances.” And you can almost hear the rhyme in the back of their minds: “We would if we could, but we can’t—so we won’t.”

This Third Sunday of Advent is sometimes called “Gaudete Sunday.” “Gaudete” is Latin for “rejoice,” and it’s the first word of a traditional text used on this day in the Mass: “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice.” We follow our two purple candles of repentance with a pink one of joy, and some churches even swap their purple out for pink vestments and altar hangings. It’s the Third Sunday of Advent, the Sunday of Joy; and three thousand Americans died each day this week. It’s hard to feel joyful on a Sunday like this.

But “rejoice always” doesn’t mean “always feel joyful.” Do you see what I mean? Paul never tells the Thessalonians to feel joy, to feel gratitude. He never says, “don’t worry, be happy.” He doesn’t command feel certain emotions. He commands them to do certain things. Give thanks in all circumstances. Pray without ceasing. Rejoice always.

We can’t force ourselves to feel things we don’t feel. We can’t simply will ourselves into feeling that this isolated Christmas season is a season as joyful as any other. But we can cultivate practices of rejoicing.

We can listen to as much Christmas music as we want, even though it’s only Advent. We can decorate our churches and our homes—and by the way, if you haven’t seen the beautiful greenery decorating our church, take a stroll by and look. We can call an old friend on the phone, we can write a thank-you note a week, we can take five minutes each day—just five minutes—and sit and pray to God and be quiet.

“The one who calls you,” Paul writes, “is faithful,” (1 Thess. 5:24) and faithfulness is all he asks in return. Goes doesn’t ask that we feel joyful every minute; but that we rejoice on every kind of day, good or bad. Not that we feel grateful every minute; but that we give thanks in every kind of circumstance. Not that we have perfect spiritual lives, but that we never forsake our practices of prayer. Because it’s this faithful practice of rejoicing—this “non-spontaneous” laughter into the void—that will help carry us through until we feel joy again. Because we will feel joy, again and again and again, as our Psalm this morning reminds us:
“Those who sowed with tears will reap with songs of joy. Those who go out weeping, carrying the seed, will come again with joy, shouldering their sheaves.”(Ps. 126:6-7)

So if you’re feeling joyful today—rejoice! It will be easy. If you’re feeling sad—rejoice! It might be hard. But it might help. Do one thing, just one thing, that you love to do to celebrate your life. Because we can’t control the circumstances of our lives. But we can choose joy; or, at least, “rejoice always.” Amen.

[1] C. Natalie van der Wal, Robin N. Kok, “Laughter-inducing therapies: Systematic review and meta-analysis,” Social Science & Medicine, Volume 232,2019,Pages 473-488,ISSN 0277-9536,https://doi.org/10.1016/j.socscimed.2019.02.018.(http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0277953619300851)