Sermon — December 3, 2023

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

Now, I don’t often stand up here and brag about my own accomplishments, but you should know: In addition to being loving father and a decent cook and a once-distinguished student of ancient languages, I happen to have been known, in the late-’90s Winchester youth sports scene, as one of Little League baseball’s worst-ever hitters.

Now, I know it’s hard to believe, but no matter how many hours my mom and I spent in “spring training” out in the front yard, no matter how many how many times I fantasized about being up to bat for the Sox in the bottom of the ninth, there I’d be, batting ninth—they’d have me batting tenth if they could—failing to connect with yet another pitch.

I had a brief renaissance during the first years of “kid pitch,” when the combination of my gangly frame and my peers’ complete inaccuracy led me to an on-base percentage driven by walks and being hit by pitches, but I swear my batting average was never above about fifty; and I do mean that like .050.

But my coaches were nice guys, so I was mostly on the receiving end of positive, affirming coachly shouts. “Good eye!” they’d say as the ball sailed past, four feet from the strike zone. “Keep your head in the game!” as I instinctively ducked to avoid a pitch we all wished I’d let hit me in the helmet. And my favorite piece of sports advice: “Look alive!” an expression they surely teach in Dad School.

“Look alive!” Now that’s one I can do. I cannot hit a baseball to save my life, but I can look alive, because I am alive, gosh darnit. And I can look the part!

Of course, that’s not what “look alive” means. It’s not “look alive,” but “look alive.” Pay attention, be alert, keep your eye on the proverbial or literal ball. If Jesus were your baseball coach—surely that’s the title of a country song, right?—if Jesus were your baseball coach, he’d say, as you stepped up to the plate, “Come on, now! Keep awake!”

“Look alive!” Advent is here.

“Keep awake,” Jesus says to his disciples. “Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come.” (Mark 13:37, 33) We often spend these four weeks in December looking forward to Christmas Day, to God’s arrival in the world in the form of the baby Jesus, born in Bethlehem. But the church’s worship also looks forward to something else. When Jesus says “you do not know when the time will come,” he’s not talking about his own birth. That would be a little odd. He’s not talking about the “First Coming” of Christmas. He’s talking about what’s sometimes called the “Second Coming,” some future day when “the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light,” the stars will fall and the heavens will shake and “they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory.” (Mark 13:24-26)

And this is why Jesus tells the disciples to “keep alert,” “keep awake,” because that day is coming, “but about that day or hour no one knows,” neither the angels, nor the Son, nor any preacher who tries to calculate the date—but only the Father. (Mark 13:32) So they should keep watch, Jesus says, lest it catch them unawares.

Now of course it’s hard to know just what this means. Jesus has to be exaggerating, somewhere. If the “Second Coming” is some actual day of earth-shaking darkness and divine judgment, which still hasn’t happened yet, then the urgency is exaggerated: surely the disciples do not need to stay awake for more than two thousand years. And if they really did need to keep awake, to keep alert, to “look alive”—if it’s really true that that first generation of disciples wouldn’t pass away before these things happened—then maybe he’s not actually talking about some literal day of darkness, some future day of the “Second Coming.” Maybe he’s talking about something else.

Advent, after all, isn’t just a season of vigilance. It’s a season of memory, and comfort, and hope. It’s a season in which, during what are literally the darkest days of the year, we are reminded of the great things that God has done, and the great things that God will do, and the great things that God is doing even now.

The prophet Isaiah looks back to the past, reminding God of the times “when you did awesome deeds that we did not expect.” (64:3) And Isaiah hopes for the future, Isaiah prays for God to do something—one of my favorite prayers, “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down!” (64:1) But Isaiah also acknowledges the ongoing work of God: “O Lord… we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand.” (64:8) And my middle-school pottery-class skills were as poor as my elementary baseball skills, but even I know that a potter’s work is not one and done. There’s a shaping and a guidance that takes place, between a potter’s hands and a sad old lump of clay, and I love this as an image for human life, because you can’t look at any given pot at any given moment and know what the future has in store for it, any more than you can do with people. That one looks pretty rough now, but it’s still on the wheel. That one looks pristine, but maybe it’s about to crack in the kiln.

Paul does the same thing, balancing the future and the past with a healthy dose of the present. He begins his letter to the Corinthians by giving thanks for the grace that has been given them in Jesus Christ. (1 Cor. 1:4) And he reinforces the promise that God will strengthen them, so that they can be found blameless at that Second Coming, “on the day of our Lord Jesus Christ.” (1 Cor. 13:8) But he’s more focused on the present: on the ways in which God is enriching them now, on the spiritual gifts God is giving them now, as they wait. He talks about what God is doing for people in the present, because he wants to talk about what the people are doing to each other in the present: after this positive and encouraging opening, he’ll go on to spend most of the letter trying to sort out the conflicts and disagreements that keep happening between the members of this very human church. Like Jesus, Paul also wants these Christian disciples to be vigilant—not for the ways in which God will one day come to them, but for the ways in which God is already now among them, working in them and through them, and in and through the people around them, people who sometimes really get on their nerves.

In the darkest days, in the midst of great suffering, when it seems like the whole world, the whole universe, is coming apart—in other words, most days—the Son of Man is coming, wrapped in clouds. But those clouds are apparently pretty thick. You’d think that when God does tear open the heavens and come down, it would be an obvious thing. And yet Jesus tells the disciples, over and over again, to look alive. Keep awake. Be alert. Because this awe-inspiring appearance of the Lord might otherwise go as unnoticed as his birth did, in the back of an inn, somewhere in Bethlehem.

How many awe-inspiring moments sail on by while we’re swinging at something else and missing? Not the baby’s first steps, or your first time at Niagara Falls. But the child’s 100^th drawing of a ninja or the blueness of the sky on a November morning. Not the few big moments in life, but the hundred thousand small ones. Not the one big life-changing experience, but the million little spiritual gifts that lie hidden for us, scattered throughout the stuff of daily life.

So keep awake, this Advent! Be alert! Keep watch for the ways God is appearing to you here and now; keep watch for the hand of the potter shaping you, and the people you love, and the people you don’t much like. Keep your head in the game, and eyes on the ball. And if that’s too much, during this chaotic season before Christmas—if it’s too much, amid the shopping and the cooking, the family visits and the final exams—then at the very least: Look alive! Because you are alive, thank God—and “I give thanks to my God always for you,” knowing that God loves you, and that “God is faithful” to you, and that by God you were called into the fellowship of his Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Sermon — November 26, 2023

Michael Fenn

Lectionary Readings

At the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the year, an armistice agreement took effect between the Allied Powers and Germany, which would lead to the end of the violence of the first world war. Trenches had been carved across landscapes, toxic gasses had clouded the air for months, new horrors and new forms of warfare emerged to claim hundreds of thousands of lives, and left hoards of veterans scared physically and mentally.  In the deep grief and turmoil after the war, new political movements and ideologies would arise from the shadows and ashes that were left behind. In Italy, Mussolini would seize power less than four years after the end of the war, giving rise to the first modern fascist government. This would be followed by other fascist and authoritarian movements, in Russia, Germany, and elsewhere around the world. I don’t presume to speak for every single person living in these countries in this period, but I imagine the sense of chaos, the unsettledness, and the uncertainty these changes in government would have brought. I imagine that no matter what political ideology they believed, this period still brought forward fear and uncertainty. 

The Pope at the time felt similarly. Three years after Mussolini’s rise to power, and as the reality of this new and dangerous government set in, Pope Pius instituted a new feast day. The Feast of Christ the King, this was a brave and defiant reminder to the faithful that no human government is the true ruler of people. In that new age of ultra-nationalism, of secularization, and authoritarianism, the new feast–the Reign of Christ–served as a reminder of God’s presence and providence even in the face of Mussolini’s regime. 

In the ensuing decades, many other global churches would adopt some form of this new feast. In the Episcopal Church we situate it at the end of our liturgical year, so I will also wish you all a happy new year. Liturgically, our year begins with Advent, a period marked by waiting. In Advent, we wait and anticipate the birth of Christ, a moving and exciting time. I love Advent, and do not mean to take away its shine. However, this Sunday serves as an important reminder that even as we go into this season of anticipation, Christ is already present with us. Not only that, but that Christ is already Ruler of the Universe. The Christ we anticipate every year is the same Christ that has already saved in the resurrection, that continues to save even today, and that will continue to save. Throughout all human history of war and peace, feast and famine, none overturns the Reign of Christ. 

In our own time, we are also less than a calendar year from the next election in our country. I make no comment on candidates or policy. But, in my own life, elections are a deeply troubling time, a divisive time, and a time where it feels like everything is crashing and burning. 

However, it seems that we do not even need to wait a year for the world to feel like it is crashing and burning. The Russo-Ukrainian war continues to claim lives in the service of God-knows-what, the current ceasefire in Gaza seems likely to expire and return to a state of violence, our agricultural zones have shifted because of a warming climate, the MBTA needs like a gazillion dollars to fix itself, and it just seems like everything’s coming up bad news. 

In tandem with all this bad news, today is a reminder that we as Christians put stock, above all else, in the saving work of Christ. When our governments are in disarray, when we feel powerless to stop violence, and everything is a mess. Christ is not only with us, but Christ will have the final word, not any human creation, not any human government. The Reign of Christ has happened, is happening, and is still unfolding. 

But what actually is the Reign of Christ. It is a tough question to answer, and so it actually has quite a few answers. We see answers in the very many parables we get in Matthew, Mark, and Luke. We also see answers in the many descriptions we get in other scriptures, such as the Epistle this morning. The Reign of Christ has many aspects. 

Today, we get a parable that describes one aspect of the Reign of Christ, referred to in this parable as ‘the Kingdom’. Parables are interesting because they rely on analogy and metaphor to describe things that are hard to describe, and typically only describe one facet of the multi-faceted, hard to define kingdom. Today’s parable is no different. 

First though, it is tempting when we read this parable, and others like it, to see in it a stark and violent condemnation of a certain group of people. In this case those uncharitable people who pass by the “least of these” and do not offer any reprieve to those suffering. What strikes me in this are two things. The first being that I think everyone in this room actually fits into both camps, every one of us has definitely both passed by someone in need, and every one of us has almost certainly done something for those in need. The idea that we can be sorted in a binary way falls apart at that realization. The second being that, a literal reading of this ignores a host of other scriptures about grace, salvation, and forgiveness–though those are topics for a different sermon. 

So, if the Reign of Christ is not about sending bad goats into eternal punishment, what is it about? As we set aside a judicial reading of today’s gospel, we can see a more affirmational reading emerge from the story. What we see emerging is a description of an aspect of the kingdom that describes what kinds of behaviors are going to be held up and celebrated in the kingdom. The acts of feeding the hungry, providing water to the thirsty, visiting the prisoner, are actions that are indicative and will be held up in the Reign of Christ. Those things that divide us, that cause us to ignore the hungry, the thirsty, the prisoners; things like war, division, greed, and apathy will be washed away and unwelcome in the Reign of Christ. 

In the Ephesians reading today, Paul says something notable about what the Reign of Christ actually meant for the community of the Ephesians, and also fits into what it means for us today. I certainly think it beats me trying to parse out the complexities of eschatological theology for the next few minutes. Maybe you picked up on it already, but he says this really long sentence about hope and power. To paraphrase and shorten it a bit to make my point, he prays that the Ephesians will come to know the hope to which they are called to, according to the power of Christ, and that this same power is that which resurrected Christ, and seats Christ above all of creation in his reign. 

Today, I think we share in that same calling to the Ephesians that is also expressed in the feast day of the Reign of Christ. We are called to hope, just like the Ephesians were–as they dared to live and worship under an empire that would likely kill them if it discovered they were Christians.  We are called to hope just like those faithful that lived and suffered under fascist regimes around the world. And just like the many Christians who have come before us that lived through famines, wars, and persecutions. We are called to hope–and to trust in–the Reign of Christ. Which is not a reign of war, division, and strife among peoples, but as we see in the gospel it is a reign where nobody is left to suffer. It is a reign of caring, peace, and the full reconciliation of all creation to God and one another. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.