Sunday,
November 24, 2019
1.
Next week we will sing “O Come, O Come,
Emmanuel!” The first Sunday in the
season of pregnancy, in the season of preparation and expectation, the first
Sunday in the season of Advent:
“O
Come, O Come, Emmanuel,
And
ransom captive Israel,
That
mourns in lonely exile here,
Until
the Son of God appear!”
It will mark the beginning of a new year, a new
liturgical year; and Advent will invite wakefulness and watchfulness, a robust
kind of hopefulness in our season of pregnancy and prayer.
“O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,
“O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,
And
ransom captive Israel,
That
mourns in lonely exile here,
Until
the Son of God appear!
Rejoice,
rejoice, Emmanuel
Shall
come to thee, O Israel!”
We Christians are called to expect, to prepare
for God’s appearances in the world: in the ordinary wonders and extraordinary
messiness of day-to-day life, and especially in the broken places of our
hearts, and our communities, and our nations.
We are called to keep vigil through dark nights, to keep watch in
courage when others give in to cynicism.
“O Come, O Come, Emmanuel!” And
in the new year we will keep watch together—resisting despair and cynicism,
listening for God’s voice across frozen ponds and blowing through barren trees. If you’re anything like me, “O Come, O Come,
Emmanuel” will raise some of the hairs on your forearm. A sure sign that you’re one of the watchers
too. Called to keep vigil. Called to keep watch. Together.
2.
So it’s curious—isn’t it—that on this last
Sunday of the year, at least, this last Sunday of the liturgical year, the
Christian year, we land in Matthew 25.
“I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me
something to drink, I was a stranger, an immigrant and you welcomed me.” In the old days we called this Sunday “Christ
the King Sunday.” And in the parable
Jesus is pretty clear that the king of kings, the holy one, the God of the
cosmos itself: this king is already with us, very much among us now, in the
hungry brother begging for a handout on Central Ave in Dover, in the refugee
sister dragging her kids across deserts for a better life, in the transgender
teen getting bullied at the mall. This
isn’t just about watching, right? This
is about engaging, reaching out, touching.
God embodied. The body of
God. In my neighbor.
Now there always a couple of ways to read these
great texts. You can certainly read this
one, Matthew 25, as a cosmic threat.
That Jesus is urging the nations to stand up and be counted. Or else.
That Jesus is promising life and blessing to the sheep, but he’s
invoking pain and suffering for the goats.
You can certainly read this as a threat.
But I want to say that that’s a much too simplistic reading of a powerfully
important strand in the gospel story.
Jesus aims to transform us, to transform communities, not condemn
us. The gospel aims to free us, not bind
us up and cast us away.
So what’s Jesus doing, then? I think that what Jesus is doing— in this
teaching—is painting a bright picture of the purposes and passion of God. He’s looking deep into God’s heart, and imagining
God’s future. The purposes and passion
of God. Now the theologians call this
kind of theology ‘eschatology’—and some think that means study of the end time. The cosmic collision at the end of time. But not at all really. ‘Eschatology’ means the ways we talk about
God’s future: the ways we describe God’s passion for the world, and God’s
purposes in healing and blessing and redeeming the world. What does God intend for the world? That’s the big question in ‘eschatology.’
And I think this is very relevant to our
particular moment: to the anxieties our young people articulate around the
planet’s future, to the range of uncertainties raised by robotics and
artificial intelligence and genetic engineering. Can we trust the future anymore? Is God’s passion, God’s intention still
relevant, still operative, still accessible to God’s people? Big questions, right? Can we trust the future anymore?
And in this parable, in Matthew 25, Jesus
insists that God’s passion for the world, God’s intention for the future is indeed
both urgent and relevant. Yes, Jesus
says. God’s passion is still life-giving
and soul-saving. Yes, Jesus says. God’s grace is the key that opens doors and
minds and hearts to a future of mercy and justice. But here’s the thing, the radical gospel
thing, and Jesus puts a fine point on it: that same passion, that same grace is
embodied in the most vulnerable among us.
Find it, embrace it, taste it: with the hungry brother in Dover, and with
the refugee sister in Portsmouth, and with the transgender teen walking the
streets right here in Durham. “Do you
want to see where God is going?” Jesus asks.
“Do you want to know what’s in God’s heart?” Jesus asks. “Do you want to touch the face of God in the
world?” Jesus asks.
And of course, he answers his own
question. He doesn’t always. But here, Jesus answers his own
question. “I was hungry and you gave me food,
I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger, an
immigrant, and you welcomed me.” It’s
right in front you, Jesus says. God’s
future is perceived, discerned and celebrated in communion: where we feed one
another. God’s passion is perceived,
discerned and celebrated in compassion: when we show up for one another. And God’s future is perceived, discerned and
celebrated in hospitality: where we welcome one another.
In our communion this morning, we’ll be served
by disciples, servants, friends, young and old.
Think of the sacrament as a practice.
Together we practice the presence of God. Our witness is this: that Christ is among us
in the loaf and in the cup, in the brokenness and the wholeness of our lives,
in our intentions around healing the planet and befriending the stranger and
feeding the hungry. We call this the
Sunday of the Reign of Christ. Christ
reigns in vulnerability. Not machismo. Christ
reigns in weakness. Not weaponry. Christ reigns in
compassion and courage. Not bluster.
So be mindful during the sacrament this
morning. Be alert to the words we
say. Watch the bread as it breaks. Notice the hands that serve you and the feet
that step forward before your own and around your own. God’s future is something like this
feast. It’s a future of hands breaking
bread, and nations sharing resources.
It’s a future of warm friendship and loving community and respect for
the wild differences between us. In
God’s future, the divine light shines in every face, from all our eyes; and the
divine dream is cultivated in hospitality, and in partnership, and in
communion. It’s this future we create
together. It’s this future God creates
with us and in us and for us.
So be mindful during the sacrament. Be alert and keep watch. Because God’s future is in the making right now. God’s future is your hands and mine! And God’s future is in the making right now.
