Sunday, November 24, 2024
The Fourth Sunday in Early Advent
1.
Could it be that grace is a Syrophoenician sister who shows up on Jesus’ doorstep, unannounced and unwelcome? Could it be that grace is a Palestinian troublemaker who will not be denied, who slips into his quiet retreat on the coast, not only to challenge him, but also to entrust him with the most precious prayer in her life? This is truly what grace is always about. Always and everywhere. To challenge any limits on our imagination. To challenge any boundaries to our compassion. And then: to invite in our hearts, and in our lives, a radical turning toward beloved community and the mercy of God.
Is Jesus then—like the rest of us—in need of this grace? I think so. Is he—like the rest of us—stuck in habits that limit his imagination, in beliefs that keep him from seeing and knowing and touching what’s most important and holy? I don’t see any other way of reading this text. He calls this Syrophoenician sister and her family a pack of ‘dogs.’ The most vile slur in the ancient world. He dismisses her—briefly, but emphatically—as unworthy of his time, his concern, his faith. But she, she nevertheless entrusts Jesus with the most fragile and precious prayer in her life, with the life and wellness of her own daughter.
You see, grace isn’t magic, and it’s not pixie dust. Grace is the deliberate intrusion of Love in our lives, yours and mine, God’s shameless invitation to friendship and partnership in world that aches for blessing, healing and peace. Grace comes in a thousand different guises, from a thousand different directions. Almost every time, unannounced and unexpected. So she throws herself at Jesus’ feet, and maybe ours too, and begs him to cast out whatever it is that threatens her child’s life.
And this is always the way with grace. Because when her daughter is healed, when her daughter is restored to health and made well, Jesus himself is also made whole again. Let me repeat. When her daughter is healed, Jesus himself is also made whole again. No longer is there a theological wall around his heart, a preoccupation with privilege, or a sense of resentment to folks outside his own tradition. No longer is he able to write off a sister, a brother whose prayers are foreign and unintelligible to him. Jesus too is restored by grace, awakened in this moment to the sweet and holy pervasiveness of grace; and it’s this Palestinian troublemaker who shakes him loose, who reveals the one and only faith that matters; the faith that sees divinity in humanity, and humanity in every child of every family in every people.
And as you read Mark’s gospel from start to finish, you see that this very moment is transformative in Jesus’ life, in his ministry, in his sense of what it means to be a Child of God. He is saved by her grace. She arouses in his heart not just a sense of justice and righteousness, but a kind of delight that sees mercy and trusts mercy and extends mercy to the brokenhearted and hungry, to the unacknowledged and unseen, to the hopeless and anxious—wherever they may be, and whomever they may love, and whatever their faith or passion. The Syrophoenician’s daughter is healed; and Jesus is made whole.
And I think that’s why this particular story—short and compact as it is—is so important for us, for the church in this generation. Because, friends, faith is a journey of transformation and redemption. For Jesus, yes, and for you and me too. We are always in need of healing and hope. We are always in need of forgiveness and grace. Not because we’re jerks. Not because we’re marked by some kind of sinister spirit. But because we’re human. Because the journey itself is about waking up to the magnificence of our lives, making amends when inevitably we get things wrong, growing into awareness and hope, and embracing mercy as the one and only language of faith itself. Embracing mercy as our vocation.
So the point of this morning’s gospel may well be that you and I can expect grace, can watch for her, in the ebb and flow of our ordinary lives; in the unexpected knock, during dinner, at the front door; in the woman who awkwardly sits down, a little too close perhaps, on the subway in the city; in the coworker who suddenly wants to have a conversation about race and how it gets between the two of you. Grace is God’s handiwork, stitched into our lives, into our neighborhoods, into our days and weeks and seasons. Always eager to catch our attention. Always determined to shake us loose from habit and shame, from pride and privilege.
The vitality of your faith and mine depends on this. On our vulnerability. On our openness. On our watchfulness. And do know this, my friends. Do not doubt this. You are every bit as worthy of God’s grace as Jesus is. And believe me, she’s everywhere. Grace is that subtle turning within, where the air you inhale becomes the breath you offer to the world. She’s that tear in your eye, welling up in the moment a friend offers unqualified forgiveness. She may show up unannounced. And she may challenge the most precious and deeply held assumptions in our hearts. But she comes to set us free.
2.
This week grace comes to me in a call from Jewish friends in Boston urging me to join their day-long fast for peace on Tuesday. Across the country, activists will fast for the day, focusing prayer and attention on the children still living and now starving in Gaza. Tens of thousands have been killed already in thirteen months of war, and starvation is a terrible reality for thousands of others, children especially. But these Jewish friends have not, will not give in to the hatred that drives Israeli strategy and paralyzes American leadership. So we’ll fast. In a dozen different cities. Forgoing three meals for a day. Joining spiritual energies and prayers. Committing to an ancient spiritual practice that builds mercy’s muscle for peaceful resistance in a violent world. And I welcome any of you, all of you (LINK HERE) to join me.
“Now how’s that grace?” you might reasonably ask. It sounds like another obligation, even another test of will power and moral commitment. “How can that be grace?”
I guess you have to decide for yourself. But, for me, it’s grace because grace aims to free me from self-absorption and even despair, for generous connection and global citizenship. It’s grace because grace aims to enlist me in God’s daring project of collective liberation and plentiful blessing. When I give in to despair, when I turn away from the suffering of siblings in places like Gaza City or downtown Dover, I am diminished and my heart scarred. But grace is God’s shameless intrusion. Grace is God’s hand outstretched. Grace is a call that rouses me from indifference to brotherhood, from desolation to determination. And this week, I have Jewish friends in Boston to thank for that call.
Here in New Hampshire, friends are participating in a variety of ways—but I’ll be fasting from sundown Monday to sundown Tuesday, and then donating something like the cost of three meals to the World Central Kitchen for their ongoing work cooking and serving the families of Gaza in wartime.
1.
Is Jesus then—like the rest of us—in need of this grace? I think so. Is he—like the rest of us—stuck in habits that limit his imagination, in beliefs that keep him from seeing and knowing and touching what’s most important and holy? I don’t see any other way of reading this text. He calls this Syrophoenician sister and her family a pack of ‘dogs.’ The most vile slur in the ancient world. He dismisses her—briefly, but emphatically—as unworthy of his time, his concern, his faith. But she, she nevertheless entrusts Jesus with the most fragile and precious prayer in her life, with the life and wellness of her own daughter.
You see, grace isn’t magic, and it’s not pixie dust. Grace is the deliberate intrusion of Love in our lives, yours and mine, God’s shameless invitation to friendship and partnership in world that aches for blessing, healing and peace. Grace comes in a thousand different guises, from a thousand different directions. Almost every time, unannounced and unexpected. So she throws herself at Jesus’ feet, and maybe ours too, and begs him to cast out whatever it is that threatens her child’s life.
And as you read Mark’s gospel from start to finish, you see that this very moment is transformative in Jesus’ life, in his ministry, in his sense of what it means to be a Child of God. He is saved by her grace. She arouses in his heart not just a sense of justice and righteousness, but a kind of delight that sees mercy and trusts mercy and extends mercy to the brokenhearted and hungry, to the unacknowledged and unseen, to the hopeless and anxious—wherever they may be, and whomever they may love, and whatever their faith or passion. The Syrophoenician’s daughter is healed; and Jesus is made whole.
And I think that’s why this particular story—short and compact as it is—is so important for us, for the church in this generation. Because, friends, faith is a journey of transformation and redemption. For Jesus, yes, and for you and me too. We are always in need of healing and hope. We are always in need of forgiveness and grace. Not because we’re jerks. Not because we’re marked by some kind of sinister spirit. But because we’re human. Because the journey itself is about waking up to the magnificence of our lives, making amends when inevitably we get things wrong, growing into awareness and hope, and embracing mercy as the one and only language of faith itself. Embracing mercy as our vocation.
So the point of this morning’s gospel may well be that you and I can expect grace, can watch for her, in the ebb and flow of our ordinary lives; in the unexpected knock, during dinner, at the front door; in the woman who awkwardly sits down, a little too close perhaps, on the subway in the city; in the coworker who suddenly wants to have a conversation about race and how it gets between the two of you. Grace is God’s handiwork, stitched into our lives, into our neighborhoods, into our days and weeks and seasons. Always eager to catch our attention. Always determined to shake us loose from habit and shame, from pride and privilege.
The vitality of your faith and mine depends on this. On our vulnerability. On our openness. On our watchfulness. And do know this, my friends. Do not doubt this. You are every bit as worthy of God’s grace as Jesus is. And believe me, she’s everywhere. Grace is that subtle turning within, where the air you inhale becomes the breath you offer to the world. She’s that tear in your eye, welling up in the moment a friend offers unqualified forgiveness. She may show up unannounced. And she may challenge the most precious and deeply held assumptions in our hearts. But she comes to set us free.
2.
This week grace comes to me in a call from Jewish friends in Boston urging me to join their day-long fast for peace on Tuesday. Across the country, activists will fast for the day, focusing prayer and attention on the children still living and now starving in Gaza. Tens of thousands have been killed already in thirteen months of war, and starvation is a terrible reality for thousands of others, children especially. But these Jewish friends have not, will not give in to the hatred that drives Israeli strategy and paralyzes American leadership. So we’ll fast. In a dozen different cities. Forgoing three meals for a day. Joining spiritual energies and prayers. Committing to an ancient spiritual practice that builds mercy’s muscle for peaceful resistance in a violent world. And I welcome any of you, all of you (LINK HERE) to join me.
“Now how’s that grace?” you might reasonably ask. It sounds like another obligation, even another test of will power and moral commitment. “How can that be grace?”
I guess you have to decide for yourself. But, for me, it’s grace because grace aims to free me from self-absorption and even despair, for generous connection and global citizenship. It’s grace because grace aims to enlist me in God’s daring project of collective liberation and plentiful blessing. When I give in to despair, when I turn away from the suffering of siblings in places like Gaza City or downtown Dover, I am diminished and my heart scarred. But grace is God’s shameless intrusion. Grace is God’s hand outstretched. Grace is a call that rouses me from indifference to brotherhood, from desolation to determination. And this week, I have Jewish friends in Boston to thank for that call.
Here in New Hampshire, friends are participating in a variety of ways—but I’ll be fasting from sundown Monday to sundown Tuesday, and then donating something like the cost of three meals to the World Central Kitchen for their ongoing work cooking and serving the families of Gaza in wartime.
Donate to World Central Kitchen's Gaza Project HERE!
Others will be gathering—and you’re welcome to join them—for an hour-long vigil Tuesday at 1 pm in Manchester. You can catch all the details on the church’s Facebook Page. Again, it’s a very small gesture, and we all understand that; but so often that’s where grace lives. In very small, but very loving, choices and commitments.
You see, grace refuses to release us from the joys and responsibilities of imagination and hope. Let me say that part again. Grace refuses to release us from the joys and responsibilities of imagination and hope. And somewhere in Gaza, in some half-destroyed shelter or crumbling mosque or church, there’s a child, somebody’s son, maybe the Syrophoenician’s daughter; and she’s hungry this morning. And she’s frightened this morning. And she’s waiting for her mother to return with something, something, anything to eat, or a blanket to keep her warm. And grace says, to me at least; grace says, she’s yours, David. She’s yours. Your sister. Your family. Yours to love. Yours to protect. Yours to feed. And that’s why I’ll fast on Tuesday. And pull her close in my prayers. And do every little thing I can with great love.
3.
The wise and wonderful Henri Nouwen once wrote: “The Lord is coming, always coming. When you have ears to hear and eyes to see, you will recognize him at any moment of your life.” And, then, he added: “Life is Advent; life is recognizing the coming of the Lord.” And this, I think, is something like the animating affirmation of Christian life itself. Life is Advent. Not December is Advent. And not, eggnog is Advent. And, for God’s sake, not Black Friday is Advent. But Life is Advent. Life is recognizing the coming of the Lord. Or—when we watch for God, when we’re alert to God’s presence, when we’re intentional about our looking and our listening and our waiting for grace—we are most deeply, most profoundly, sometimes most uncomfortably alive. “When you have ears to hear and eyes to see.”
The stirring insight in this morning’s reading is this: that the Lord, our Lord, does not come alone. The One for whom we wait, the One for whom our hearts long: this Lord does not come alone and (in fact) has never done so. Watching for Jesus inevitably means discovering a communion of friends, a circle of allies, a network of siblings whose needs, hopes and eccentricities become our own. If you’re alert to the coming of Jesus, you’re going to find the Syrophoenician sister looking him in the eye, and maybe you too, challenging our tired assumptions, and insisting that we draw the circle even wider, even bigger, even bolder.
And again, I’m struck this morning by how it is that Jesus is healed, how it is that Jesus is made whole in this encounter, in this exchange, in the gospel text itself. He probably didn’t know he needed it. He certainly was predisposed to turn her away at the door. But grace persists. Grace slips in anyway. She entrusts Jesus with everything that is precious and holy—and says: Please, see me now as a sister. Please, open your heart to my pain. Please, love my child as your own.
And this, my friends, this is grace, amazing and always near. To be confronted by Love, and then entrusted by Love to join the movement of mercy. To be saved from despair by the kind of love that inevitably breaks our hearts, but also heals our souls. This is grace, amazing and always near. To dance in communities of resistance. To praise God for a world never ceases to inspire. To do small things with great joy. This is grace; and we are ever and always invited to be her friends. Here and now.
Amen and Ashe.
Others will be gathering—and you’re welcome to join them—for an hour-long vigil Tuesday at 1 pm in Manchester. You can catch all the details on the church’s Facebook Page. Again, it’s a very small gesture, and we all understand that; but so often that’s where grace lives. In very small, but very loving, choices and commitments.
3.
The wise and wonderful Henri Nouwen once wrote: “The Lord is coming, always coming. When you have ears to hear and eyes to see, you will recognize him at any moment of your life.” And, then, he added: “Life is Advent; life is recognizing the coming of the Lord.” And this, I think, is something like the animating affirmation of Christian life itself. Life is Advent. Not December is Advent. And not, eggnog is Advent. And, for God’s sake, not Black Friday is Advent. But Life is Advent. Life is recognizing the coming of the Lord. Or—when we watch for God, when we’re alert to God’s presence, when we’re intentional about our looking and our listening and our waiting for grace—we are most deeply, most profoundly, sometimes most uncomfortably alive. “When you have ears to hear and eyes to see.”
The stirring insight in this morning’s reading is this: that the Lord, our Lord, does not come alone. The One for whom we wait, the One for whom our hearts long: this Lord does not come alone and (in fact) has never done so. Watching for Jesus inevitably means discovering a communion of friends, a circle of allies, a network of siblings whose needs, hopes and eccentricities become our own. If you’re alert to the coming of Jesus, you’re going to find the Syrophoenician sister looking him in the eye, and maybe you too, challenging our tired assumptions, and insisting that we draw the circle even wider, even bigger, even bolder.
And again, I’m struck this morning by how it is that Jesus is healed, how it is that Jesus is made whole in this encounter, in this exchange, in the gospel text itself. He probably didn’t know he needed it. He certainly was predisposed to turn her away at the door. But grace persists. Grace slips in anyway. She entrusts Jesus with everything that is precious and holy—and says: Please, see me now as a sister. Please, open your heart to my pain. Please, love my child as your own.
And this, my friends, this is grace, amazing and always near. To be confronted by Love, and then entrusted by Love to join the movement of mercy. To be saved from despair by the kind of love that inevitably breaks our hearts, but also heals our souls. This is grace, amazing and always near. To dance in communities of resistance. To praise God for a world never ceases to inspire. To do small things with great joy. This is grace; and we are ever and always invited to be her friends. Here and now.
Amen and Ashe.
