Women, Sexism and our Origin Story

Based on Genesis 2+3

We all have a personal origin story–a story we tell ourselves about who we are, where we have come from, and what drives us.  Through these stories, we understand our own experiences.  They are the lens through which we view and experience the world, whether we know it or not.  

Comic book heroes are all about the power of the origin story.  For example:  Superman was born on the planet Krypton, but at an early age, his parents knew that the planet would be destroyed by an asteroid.  So they sent little superman to earth where he landed in a cornfield in the Midwest.  There, earth parents adopted him and cared for him.  When his adopted father was killed in a farm accident, Superman committed to saving people’s lives, since he couldn’t save his own father from his untimely accident.  

Superman viewed the world through the lens of his experiences, and the stories he knew about himself and his history.  Just as we do. 

In the Abrahamic traditions, we have our own origin story, the story of how the world was created, how animals and humans were created, and how our relationship with God and each other began.  

Genesis 1-3 are powerful myths that tell us a lot about ourselves and our relationship to God, each other and to the natural world. And what the origin story tells us can have far reaching impacts into our lived experiences.  

This is the story we usually hear: God created the first man, Adam, and then worried that Adam would be lonely. So from a piece of Adam’s rib God created Eve, and God put them both in the Garden of Eden.  God told them not to eat from one particular tree in the garden.  And the serpent talked Eve into eating the fruit, and Eve tricked Adam into eating, therefore sending humanity into sin for all time.  The ways our myths have been told in the Christian tradition have some far-reaching implications, for women and men.  

From this traditional telling of the story, women are less than men, because they were formed from a piece of a full man.  In this telling, women are responsible for humanity being flung out of the garden of Eden, and are sneaky, conniving, and not to be trusted.  

If our origin story says that women are less than men, and women are the root of our separation from God, well, that has some far reaching consequences–culturally, theologically, socially, and inter-personally….

These beliefs about women aren’t a recent problem.  They go way back:  

• We see the way Israelites treated women in the Biblical accounts.  They were lesser humans, and accounts do not either include women’s names or give them much to say.  
• 1st Century Jewish Historian, Philo, believed that this Genesis story did indeed mean that women were inferior to men.  Further, he said that God created in men the intellect, and in women God created the lesser powers of feeling and sensing.  
• There are also Apocryphal Texts–those texts that are written between the Old and New Testament–that warn about the danger of women leading people into sin. 

But these aren’t the only ways the church has understood these texts:  

• Throughout history, Rabbis and students of the Hebrew scripture have marveled at the complexity and nuance of this story, which is not conveyed through our english translation.  
• What’s more, the early church, the church that formed after Jesus’ death and resurrection, was wildly radical compared the culture of the Jewish community in the roman empire.  It included women as apostles.  These women were serving with men in leadership roles.  But we don’t know much about these women, do we?  Because their names were either changed or in some cases they were literally erased.  
• In Romans 16: 7, Paul gives greetings to Junia the apostle.  Early translators believed the feminine version of this was wrong–because women couldn’t possibly be apostles–and changed the name to the masculine form of Junio.  

We read a text through the lens of culture.  And if culture believes women should not possess an equal position to men, then we read and translate the text ways that validate our beliefs.  It’s just human nature for us to read a text with bias.  

I went back to the original Hebrew with some reliable, scholarly companions who’ve been doing this work for a long time.  And this is the translation we came up with.  

Take a listen.  You may even want to note the places where the text sounds different than what you are used to.  

Watch video of scripture here:  https://youtu.be/9DUS06mOnOA

I hope you heard the differences between the story that you were told, and the story this translation was trying to tell.  There are many differences, but for the sake of time, I’ll only point out a couple. 

That first human created had no particular gender.  It was simply Adam, also translated as “human”.  Adam from adamah.  Human from the Humus. Earthling from the earth.  It is only until God created a companion by essentially cutting the human in half, that one human was distinguished from the other, becoming Adam the man and Eve the woman.  

Our traditional translations say that Eve came from Adam’s side, which we then translate into rib, but a close reading indicates that the entire side or half of Adam became Eve.  Dr. Wil Gafney describes this as something like cell division.   

The implication of being an equal half of an original human is far reaching.  We women aren’t just a small piece of men, we come from the same stuff, in equal parts.  And yet, we are very different.  And what’s more, we humans, formed from the same stuff, come from each other, and need each other.  We come from each other, and are created and designed to return to each other.  

This is what God had in mind, when God created humans.  Because we came from each other, we are always returning to each other.  We love, support and cling to each other. We are created by God to be companions to each other. 

Which brings me to the next thing I want to point out.  

When the humans ate the fruit, there was not coercion.  Eve ate, and passed the fruit on to Adam.  And he willingly ate.  They both willingly ate of the fruit of the tree of knowing good and evil.  And when God came to the garden, these humans did not support and cling to each other as they were created to do. Instead, they ran and hid in fear.  

And when God called out to the humans, did you notice what Adam said?  He did not respond with “we” but with “I”.  In fact, right there in the translation of the original Hebrew, Adam said, “I…I…I…I”  We may think that he was stuttering, but the word, “I”, shows up four times in a row. The authors of this story wanted to emphasize the individuality of Adam.  He told on Eve, because he was concerned about his own self.  “He” was no longer part of a “we”.  He was an “I”, a human looking out for himself.

And Eve did the same thing.  She passed the blame onto the snake.  

Everyone in this story was concerned about themselves.  No one was clinging to each other, loving each other, supporting each other.  They were only concerned about protecting themselves.  

Superman did not know his origin story for a while.  He didn’t understand why he had powers or where they came from.  It was only when he understood the story of his birth parents and his original home, that he better understood and valued his own powers.  

That is exactly what happens to me when I read this translation of the creation myth.  When we peel back the cultural lens of patriarchy, we see a more true version of the myth, our origin story.  We see God creating an equal partner for that first human, a fitting companion.  And from that partnership, we see two humans that complement each other.  And we see that companionship go badly when both humans, uncoerced, eat from the tree of the knowing of good and evil.  

This story points us to the ongoing struggle for humanity.  That we are always protecting ourselves, saving ourselves, and looking out for “me first.”  We struggle to care about our companions, our neighbors, our partners in this life, in the same way we care about ourselves.  

This story has been derailed to focus on the weakness and sin of women and the vulnerability of men to women’s knowledge and power.  A more appropriate focus is the story of human’s need for mutual companionship and support.  

The first version of the story pits women against men (an unholy endeavor, come to think of it), and because of that, men will always “win.”  The second interpretation of the story looks at men and women as equally beautiful creations, demonstrating what happens when we don’t love, honor and support each other in our lives. 

The first version of the story makes women look conniving and deceitful for handing a piece of fruit to the man, and you know this comes out in the ways women are viewed in our culture.  This is what the “me too” movement was all about.  One in five women are sexually assaulted in some way in their lifetimes.  And when a handful of these one in five women come forward, they are not trying to entrap or humiliate men.  They are simply trying to be safe, and to make sure others can live in safety too.  When women take the brave, sometimes dangerous step of reporting crimes against them, they are met with accusations of “liar, temptress, trickster” or worse, “You were asking for it” or “You liked it.”

What if we took that generous interpretation of Genesis two and three and truly made it our origin story. I believe we can do that.  And I believe it has positive ripples for us in our lives.  

If we believe that we were created to be companions to each other, and not to scapegoat each other, than when a woman reports sexual violence, we believe her.  

This year, beloved Christian composer David Haas was credibly accused by dozens of women of assault.  And guess what happened–after decades of the church ignoring these allegations, or dismissing them, these allegations came into the light.  And people believed these women.  And embraced them.  

In addition to believing these women, many churches have decided to take a break from singing David Haas’ songs.  Our new hymnal, Voices Together, which comes out in a few months, will not include his songs.  

This was a tough call–because we all like to sing “Peace before you” and “I will come to you in the silence”.  But churches are choosing not to sing these songs out of respect for the women who had the courage to come forward.  How would it feel to a woman who has been hurt by Haas or assaulted by any other person to try to sing “I will come to you in the silence” in a worship service, knowing Haas’ story and history?  It is re-traumatizing.  It is dehumanizing.  It is alienating. And that is not who we have been created to be.

For this reason, Frazer’s worship planning team has made the difficult decision not to sing these songs for a time.  We honor women’s stories, and see them as fully human, divine images of God.  We want to be fitting companions for the women and men among us who have experienced assault and other forms of violence.  We want our decisions to reflect our origin story, and who we have been created to be.  Our decision reflects that we were created as equals, and companions, and we look out for each other. We believe victims when they bravely come forward.  And we trust and honor them, because that’s who God created us to be, and how God created us to be in relationship to each other. 

This move, this decision, allows our origin story–the story of us all being created in the image of God, the story of us being created to love and compliment each other–to come into fullness of being.  

Our origin stories are the lens through which we view the world.  And as we continue to be immersed in scripture and in the stories of who we are and who we have been created to be, we learn more about the God who created us and the vision God has for us. 

We were created by God from each other.  We were created as “we”, not “I.”  We were created as interdependent equals, and fitting companions for one another.  AMEN. 

Even though I am surrounded by deep darkness

Psalm 23:4 says, 

Even though I am surrounded by deep darkness, 

I fear no danger, for you are with me. 

Your rod and your staff, they give me courage. 

About this time last year, my family moved from a high rise in Philadelphia, to the quiet little village of Frazer.  In Philadelphia, we lived at the intersection of two busy streets, so we always heard firetrucks, ambulance and police cars whizzing by.  In the spring and summer, we could hear the rumble of loud music played by cars below, or the cheers of baseball and soccer games played at the school across the street.  The church down the street rang their bell every hour on the hour. On the 4th of July, we would have a panoramic view of fireworks displays going on around the region.  

My 11th floor view was bright–everything from the Philadelphia skyline to the street lights to the stream of planes landing at the airport in the distance lit up the night.  Darkness was practically non existent there.  

And I loved it.  I’m not afraid of the dark, but I did grow accustomed to the city lights and the city sounds to lull me to sleep.  

And here, in Frazer, there is barely any sounds or light, especially now with folks mostly staying home.  The only sounds I hear are the birds at the bird feeder, the geese warning me away from their nest, and the dog barking at squirrels or the rare passer by.  The only light I see from my front porch at night is the illuminated cross on the church.  

And the stars.  There are so many stars out.  We didn’t see them 25 miles East in Philadelphia.  But here, I could lay on the church lawn and point out constellations and never get tired of it.  

But the dark and the quiet out here still freaks me out a little bit.  How do I sleep with the absence of light and sound?  

Our friends recently gave us two large wind chimes which we’ve hung outside our bedroom window.  Their clanging helps us to sleep at night. Because otherwise there would be no sound at all.

There’s been something off putting about all the darkness and silence that surrounds where we live now.  Where some of you might travel to Philadelphia and lock your car doors for fear of strangers, I don’t feel that–twenty five years of city living will do that, I guess.  But in the darkness here, I want to lock down the house, lock the car doors, pull tight the curtains. There’s something scary about not knowing what’s out there, lurking in the dark.  And what we don’t know is fraught with possibilities. What we don’t know finds fertile soil in the darkness of our imaginations.  

And the darkness that I’m experiencing here in Frazer is still not at all dark, compared to the time of the psalmist.  The psalmist writes, ”even though I am surrounded by deep darkness, I fear no danger, for you are with me.” The psalmist is someone who knows deep darkness.  There’s no electricity for the psalmist, no street lights, no flashlights or phone lights to keep the path illuminated. This is the deep darkness of no flame or torch, no bright moon.  This is the deep darkness of an unlit canyon path in the middle of the night.  

And the Psalmist is talking about more than just the darkness of our physical surroundings.  They are also addressing those dark nights of the soul, the most difficult times we experience in life, where we can’t see the path ahead, where things are so bad that we don’t even know what our options are.  

And there, surrounded by deep darkness, the psalmist does not fear.  They fear neither danger or evil, because God is with them.  

Notice here that the writer doesn’t say, “Even though I’m surrounded by deep darkness, I’m trying really hard not to fear.” or “I’m practicing not fearing.”  No, this psalmist has had enough practice in this space of deep darkness, they have been here for a long time. And they have learned from experience that there’s no point in fearing. Fear is wasted energy.

In the light, we see what’s out there.  We see what there is to fear, and what we need to worry about.  In the light, all is exposed. But, in the darkness, we don’t know what there is to fear, and our minds run wild with ideas.  

Here’s the other thing about the light–in the light, we have a sense of independence.  We don’t need anyone else, because we have this false sense of control over all that we see.  We know the danger, because we see it. And most days, we do not give our thoughts over to the dangers we do not see.

But in the darkness, friends, we realize just how little control we actually have over our surroundings.  We need a guide, someone we can really trust. We need someone to show us the way.  

Barbara Brown Taylor wrote a book a few years ago called, “Learning to walk in the dark.”  In it, she practices walking in the dark around her farm property in Georgia. And she takes up spelunking, or hiking in caves.  On one particular spelunking adventure, she went deep into a cave, and the guide instructed her to turn off her head lamp. She didn’t want to do it–that was taking this darkness thing a little too far.  But, she realized just how much she depended on that light to get her through that cave. But she reluctantly followed the guide’s instructions.  

And after a few terrifying moments of darkness, her eyes began to adjust, and she learned how to move through the darkness using other instincts.  She listened to the ways the sound bounced off the rocks, observing the difference between the sound in small and larger spaces. She listened for her friends on the journey.  She began to let go of her fear and rely on her guide to get her through the darkness. And in that deep dark cave, she moved from fear of the dark, to a comfort in the darkness.  

Even though I walk through deep darkness, I will fear no danger, for you are with me.  Your rod and staff, they give me courage. 

This is the change of instinct the Psalmist is writing about.  To move from reliance on ourselves and what we can see, to relying on God to walk us through the darkness, without fear.  

And in that darkness, we know that God, the good shepherd, has a rod to keep predators away, and a staff to keep us on the path.  And what a comfort that is, to know that God is walking with us, guiding us on the path, even when all is utter darkness.  

Last night, after a late night zoom meeting at the church, I walked in the dark from the church to the parsonage.  This walk usually makes me a little nervous, because in the past I have encountered hissing deer hiding behind bushes, or a fox running across the driveway. I also fell off the path last winter while carrying a plate full of cookies in the dark, on my way to the Christmas program.  That was a mess–for the cookies, for my plate, and for my skinned knee. And that fall made me a little scared to walk that path again at night. But, last night the dark path was much easier. I had been practicing not being afraid, I had been practicing using my other senses to get me home.  

I almost pulled out the flashlight on my phone, but I thought, “let me see if I can do this.”  And as I walked that short, dark path, I had to chuckle. Once I looked up from the path, I saw the lights from Route 30, the illumination of local businesses in the distance. I realized that if I’d just looked up, if I had let go of my fear, if I just trusted the path, I would have all I needed in front of me.  

We are living in a time right now where the path is unlit.  Last week, we didn’t know what this week would look like. And, friends, guess what? We made it through.  God showed up for us in all sorts of ways, as always. And we don’t know what next week will look like, but we know one thing I know for certain is that God will be here here, walking with us.  

Thanks be to God for walking with us. May we walk through our lives, trusting in the rod and staff of God to guide and protect us, and knowing that God is always with us.  Whatever may come, and even though we are afraid, God is here with us. AMEN. 

That all may see

Sermon based on John 9

Preached at Frazer Mennonite Church

We like to act like people today don’t think like the Pharisees did two thousand years ago.  We like to think that our theology is more evolved than connecting our physical ailments or disabilities to our sin.  But, let me tell y’all something. This kind of thinking that we heard from the Pharisees in John 9 still happens in the church.  Christianity has passed this idea down, generation to generation.  

I hear folks say–when something bad happens–what have I done to deserve this?  And when something good happens, I hear–God is blessing me! Or God really loves me!

Even in the Christmas tradition of Santa Claus, we tell our children that good things come to good children, and bad children get coal in their stockings.  

This is an idea that still pervades our theology and our world view.    

When I was preparing to take family medical leave to be with my mom in her last days, a pastor who I worked with came to me and told me that my mom was dying because she didn’t have enough faith.  A pastor. Who didn’t know my Christian, God-fearing, Jesus-loving, Spirit filled mama. That pastor is very lucky that I’m a pacifist.  

We pass along this idea that God gives us good things because we’re good, and therefore when we are bad, God must be sending us bad things.  

Friends, this is not how the world works.  This is not how God works. 

And this encounter between Jesus and the blind man and the pharisees is an example of this truth.  

If you heard this text and thought, “This story is hilarious and ridiculous!” then good job.  Your listening ears are on. This story reads like a Monty Python sketch. It is over the top.  And it is meant to be that way. It is ridiculous to prove a point.  

The question the disciples asked was, “Is the man’s blindness his fault or his parent’s fault?”

And Jesus answered easily–it was neither the parent’s or the child’s fault.  Then he healed the blind man, who–by the way–never asked to be healed. Jesus just strolled up on this man, put a mixture of dirt and saliva on the man’s eyes, told him to wash it off in the pool of Saloam, and strolled off.  The man never saw Jesus, never had a formal introduction. 

The blind man was seeing for the first time, because of someone he’d never met putting mud in his eyes.  And this set the Pharisees spinning.

The Pharisees asked the formerly blind man what happened, and he told them plainly.  And then the Pharisees began to argue between themselves about Jesus. They were all agreed that Jesus was a bad man, but the question that confounded them was exactly in what way Jesus was bad.  Some of the pharisees were concerned that Jesus healed on the sabbath. Others didn’t believe that it was Jesus who had healed the man because “How could a sinner heal?”  

Still in disbelief, the Pharisees went to the parents of the once blind man and asked them what happened.  The parents knew what happened to their son, but also knew that telling the truth would mean they couldn’t enter the temple.  So, they deflected the question, and sent the Pharisees back to their now seeing son.

The Pharisees began to interrogate the man about the healing, and the man was genuinely confused,  “Why do you want to hear my story all over again? Do you want to become disciples of Jesus too?”

(Which you have to admit, is a pretty funny response.)

And the Pharisees became so angry about this sighted man’s response to their questions that they threw him out of the temple.  

I also find this pretty funny.  Because this man was blind, he was considered unclean.  So he had never been allowed in the temple. And now, with sight, he was no longer allowed in the temple, because he had spoken from the heart to the religious authorities.  

So, the story of the blind man ends where it begins–with him outside the temple.  Except now he can see. And–it seems–the Pharisees cannot.  

In this long convoluted and hilarious story, we hear Jesus start with–it’s not the blind man’s fault that he’s blind, and it’s not his parent’s fault either.  And the story ends with Jesus saying that to be born blind is not the sin, but claiming to see and understand probably means you have some sin to deal with.

My mom entered hospice the week of her 45th birthday, with more grace than I’d ever seen from her.  She just relaxed into it. She had said all she needed to say to family and friends. She had taken the trip to the West Coast she always wanted to take.  She had given money away. She was ready to go.  

And her comfort with this made me very uncomfortable.  Because I was still going to be here. And I needed her help, her wisdom, her insight.  

One evening while she laid in her hospice bed she told me she believe that she was being healed in her death.  As her daughter, who was left behind to contend with the enormous absence of her in my life, I did not respond well to this.  

But there was wisdom, gentleness and kindness on her face and in her voice when she replied to me, “I don’t understand it now, but in my death, I will understand it better.  I can’t wait to sit at Jesus’ feet and have all my questions awnsered.”

For my mom, her death was a kind of healing, because as she was dying, she was understanding better who God was.  As she was dying she was seeing things more clearly than ever. As she was dying, she was experiencing the powerful presence of God.  

It wasn’t something I could understand at 22.  I still struggle. But I do understand it a little better.  Mom’s observation begins to make more sense.  

Mom’s healing was not about trying to have more faith, it was not to be found in more medical treatment, or with a better diet.  Mom’s healing was being found in giving up her control and need to understand, and relaxing into the arms of her God.  

Of course there were people that didn’t understand her attitude.  Some said it was a sin for her to stop fighting this disease, even though cancer was all over her body.  Others said she was giving up on God’s healing. Everyone had their opinions, and wanted to tell me what was wrong with my mom’s plan.  But mom knew that healing would come for her in resting, trusting, and holding on to God and to her family.

We pass on these theological ideas that sickness, defects, or imperfections mean that we are less than, that we are sinful.  We ask God why this happened to us, and not someone else. We wonder what we could have done to prevent such a disease or illness.  

Jesus’ answer here in the story is this–it’s not our fault, it’s not our parent’s fault.  But it is so that God might be glorified. 

Jesus’ answer to this question doesn’t make me feel any more comfortable.  In fact, I’d rather have an easy answer here, I would rather be able to point to someone’s sin and say, “Oh it makes sense that this illness happened.”  I don’t exactly want God to be glorified, to look better, or to be worshipped because of this man’s blindness, or that woman’s cancer.  

And even though this is what it sounds like in our ears, I don’t think this is what Jesus is saying here.  Our afflictions and infirmities aren’t to make Jesus look good, or to make us want to fall on our knees and worship God.  In reality, these illnesses just happen, by products of an imperfect world. They happen to the best of us.  

Where God is glorified, where God’s presence is fully known and understood, can happen most clearly when those difficult things happen in our lives.  I have heard–time after time–testimonies of this in this congregation. God showed up, God was glorified, in the form of a candle left on a doorstep in the middle of the night, in rides to the hospital, in meals, in folks sitting in uncertainty with us, with no easy answers.  

This is where God is made known.  This is where God is glorified.  

When my mom was dying, God was glorified in a visit from my closest friends, who took me out for dinner, and didn’t ask about my mom.  They only wanted to know how I was doing. God was revealed, God was glorified in our decade long tradition of walking in the Race for the Cure every Mother’s day.  We’d laugh together as we walked, and when I got quiet, they’d hold my hand or squeeze my shoulders. Those two friends were the presence of God for me, helping me to see and experience God in grief and anger and times of despair. 

This is the difference between sight and blindness.  Jesus–particularly this Jesus in the gospel of John–wants us to see God’s presence and glory, even in the worst life throws at us.  Our blindness is in getting derailed by why something happened, and what we did to cause it. We get distracted by the why, and miss all the signs of God’s presence with us in it.  

I do not speak these words easily or tritely–God is always there for us.  And we cannot always see it. But Jesus was sent to us to help us see, to free us from our blindness.  

We might not have healthy bodies or minds, but Jesus came to heal us from our blindness to God’s presence.  

Watch for God among you because God is here. AMEN.

A place at the table

Preached at Frazer Mennonite Church 

January 26, 2020

Based on Matthew 9:9-15

I have vivid memories of my grandparent’s house when I was growing up.  It was a safe place, a place where I knew I was loved unconditionally. My grandparents thought my flutophone playing was brilliant (it wasn’t), they thought my charcoal art phase was frame worthy (it really wasn’t), and they wanted to hear everything about my life and what I was learning and thinking about.  

The places where we talked about those things was at the table.  There were two important tables at my grandparents house–the dining room table and the kitchen table.  Now, the dining room table was basically a showpiece. We walked by this table on the way to the kitchen.  We rarely ate there, and only on special occasions. And I don’t remember those special occasions happily. Because we had to act right, or get flicked by a parent.  And we had to be very careful because grandmom pulled out her special wedding china for this moment.  

Grandmom chose this blue danube china when she got married because it looked like the popular blue willow china, but it was a little more elegant, and little less busy to look at, and not nearly as many people had it.  It was unique and special, not not just anyone got to use it. I only remember eating on this china at thanksgiving and a special birthday here or there.  

And I was terrified to use it.  Because God forbid we broke it. My grandmother was a forgiving woman, but I didn’t want to test those limits, by chipping her beautiful much beloved china.  And how did I know she felt this way? Because we could crawl under the roll top desk, we could dance and spin in her living room, but if we walked by the china hutch and it rattled in the slightest, we would hear her yell for us to stop running in the dining room.  We swore she had eyes in the back of her head, and had been specially equipped with sonar.  

The dining room was for the well behaved, the righteous among us, those of us who knew how to act, and were sure not to break the nice china.  The dining room was not our favorite place in grandmom’s house.  

It was the kitchen.  Because there we ate from her everyday dishes, the ones that looked like diner plates.  They were scratched and well worn, they were the everyday dishes for everyday people. These dishes reminded me of bean with bacon soup, homemade apple sauce that was still a little frozen, lima beans, and sugar cookies served with sherbet after we ate a respectable amount of food on our plates.  But mostly these dishes reminded me of our conversations.  

It was at the little table in the kitchen that my brother and I talked to our grandparents about the books we were reading, or the things we were learning about.  It was there that I asked my Quaker raised grandfather about his military service, his beliefs about pacifism and there that we debated the finer points of the first Iraq war.  It was around the table that I learned stories about my grandmother and her more onery twin sister, and how they grew up the only girls in a house full of boys.  

It was there around the table, where we had no pretense of perfection, where we didn’t care about the unswept floor or the chipped dishes.  There at the kitchen table my love for my grandparents expanded and deepend, and there over a plate of jello and cool whip, I learned about my family, who I was from, and how that was making me who I am.  

Meals–I have learned–are a powerful opportunity to build friendships across lines.  

My mom, was not much of a cook, and neither was my dad.  My dad could make two things–shoo fly pie and molasses crinkles–and my mom’s go to dinner was nachos.  So basically, it’s a miracle I’m alive right now.  

While my parent’s skills may not have been in the kitchen, they did model something to me about the table.  When I was growing up, folks would always just show up at our door. Some wanted to visit, others wanted my dad’s advice on their car problems.  But it always seemed to be at dinner. And there was always space for someone to be added.  

I always loved that about my family.  We never knew who would show up for dinner.  These people became dear to us because we had shared a meal with them. Our family dinners were simple, on plates that my mom won with rewards from the IGA grocery promotions.  They weren’t anything special. But they didn’t need to be. It was the time around the table that was important.  

Jesus loved meeting people in their homes and around food.  In fact, after Jesus called Matthew to follow him, they ended up at Matthew’s house, eating with Matthew’s friends, those that the religious and righteous considered to be sinners.  The conversation around the table, the laughter, the shared food and hospitality were a key part of the ministry.  

Because at the table, there is an equalizing effect.  We all need to eat, right? And food is about nourishing our body, and about enjoyment. And there’s something disarming about a good meal.  It opens us to joy and conversation. And maybe, we learn some new things about the people at the table with us. 

The Pharisees must have followed Jesus and Matthew to Matthew’s home, because they saw this jubilant meal, a table full of sinners surrounding Jesus, and they were stressed.  

The Pharisees were keepers of the law.  They protected the law, because they were worried about the ways that the Jewish laws would be compromised by the Roman occupying forces.  So following the law to the letter became very important. That meant to the Pharisees a deep concern for physical and spiritual cleanliness–that meant not associating with the spiritually and physically unclean.  

So Jesus’ meal with Matthew and his “sinner” friends was troubling.  

But who were these sinners?  

Matthew would have been considered a sinner.  He was a tax collector, collecting taxes on behalf of Rome from his own people.  It was an unpopular job. People didn’t want to hang out with him because he was working for the enemy, and he was taking the money of his neighbors, family and friends for the work of the governing authorities.  It was lonely work. 

So Matthew’s only other friends were the other social outcasts of the time, others that would dare to dine with Matthew.  Other tax collectors and social outsiders.  

And Jesus came to them, and gathered them to the table.  He shared food with them. He learned about their lives, and shared stories and laughter with them.  

When the Pharisees whispered about this scandal near Jesus, he responded to their whispers, saying, “I have come to call not the righteous, but the sinners.”  

The Pharisees, folks like you and I, were concerned about preserving their faith, maintaining their integrity in difficult times.  But in doing that, they lost the vision. They forgot that the concern for purity, meant exclusion from the table. And Jesus, in this story and in so many others, modelled a table that included and welcomed all.  

Here’s a hard truth: If we think we have it all together, Jesus did not come for us.  If we are the righteous–or in some translations is reads, the “self righteous”, Jesus didn’t come for us.  But if we are sinners, Jesus is inviting us to this table.  

And if we are following Jesus, who brought outsiders in and made friends out of strangers, we are inviting our neighbors to our table too.  

I have a little bit of a complex about inviting people to my table.  Because the table we have has scratches and signs of wear. And my ikea dishwear has scratches that make the plate look more grey than white.  My house is often tidy but rarely as clean as I’d like it to be. I worry about what people will think about my 100% lovable and overly friendly puppy.  I worry that my food isn’t that great.  

But then I also wonder why I let that stop me. Everyone’s house is a mess.  Everyone’s busy. Everyone has an overeager, dog or child or feels ambivalent about their cooking.  Everyone has chipped dishes or a wobbly chair.  

Jesus was at the table with people a lot.  His ministry, from beginning to literally the end, is focused on him at a meal with something as simple as bread and wine (or grape juice).  It wasn’t anything fancy.  

In fact the last meal Jesus shared with his disciples was literally thrown together, with Jesus saying, you find a room where we can eat.  And all of you, remember me when you eat together after I die. 

I want to envision that meal today not at some stuffy dining room table but at a kitchen table, using everyday plates, not the special ones that we’re afraid to put out.  I envision a table set with mismatched glasses, with pots right off the stove placed on a dish towel trivet.  

This text has felt like a challenge to me, so I’m going to share this challenge with you.  Can we do more eating together? Can we move our meal sharing beyond the communion table, beyond the Sunday fellowship meal, and into each other’s homes?  And can we move our meal eating beyond eating with people who are exactly like us? Can we invite in folks that are on the edges of our social circles? Can we make family out of strangers?  

Your house doesn’t have to be perfect.  You can have dust bunnies playing on your hardwood, and a stain on your table cloth.  You can have mismatched silverware and stacks of books on the floor. Your food doesn’t have to be gourmet, and it doesn’t even have to be great.  Because what carries that meal–what makes it special–is that we have expanded our table, extended our reach beyond our small circle and made friends of strangers.  We have invited our fellow sinners to the table, where we are sure to experience Christ. 

So, my friends, my fellow sinners, let’s do as Jesus taught us.  Let’s confess together that we are sinners in need of Jesus. We are far from righteous.  We need to eat with each other, we need to deepen relationships, we need to widen our welcome to expand who can come to the table.  Because Jesus has not come for the perfect, the righteous, the self-righteous. Jesus has come for us sinners. We need Jesus. We need the bread of life.  We need the cup of salvation.  AMEN. 

Be Opened

Preached at Frazer Mennonite Church

Based on Mark 7:24-37

Jesus was heading into Canaanite territory to take a respite from his work.  He didn’t want to be noticed. But it was difficult for the Rabbi to be incognito in Tyre and Sidon.  Because he wasn’t Canaanite. Jesus was an Israelite, a Jew, a Rabbi. And he probably stood out in Canaanite territory. He probably didn’t look or dress like the Canaanites of the area.

He certainly caught the attention of one woman, who recognized Jesus right away.  This woman, described as Syrophoenician in this text, and Canaanite in others, was Gentile, she was from the area, she spoke Greek, and she knew all about Israelite men.    She knew of the long standing rivalry between Canaanites and Israelites, going back thousands of years to the time when Moses sent the Israelites into the promised land, a land flowing with milk and honey, and a land that happened to be already inhabited by Canaanites.  

Just as an aside, there isn’t a difference between Canaanite and Syrophonecian–but this story shows up in two different gospels and calls the women different things.  She is called different things because the authors were talking to different people. Matthew knew that the Jewish community would know exactly who the Canaanites were. And Mark understood that the Romans audience would relate more to the term Syrophonecian.  Same woman, but written to different audiences who would understand different terms.  

This Canaanite/Syrophonecian woman knew that an Israelite man would take one look at her, and determine that he was better than she was, simply because of this conflict–inscribed into Israelite mythology–that went back millenia.  It’s not something that Jesus was conscious of, but it was taught to his parents and their parents and theirs. This feeling of superiority went way back and was buried deeply in Jesus’ human DNA.

But this woman was desperate–her daughter was sick, and when your kid is sick or hurting, you do desperate things for them.  

So she went to Jesus, who looked out of place in Tyre and Sidon, but who also looked like a Holy Man, and asked him to heal her daughter.  

Desperate words from a desperate woman.  

I probably say this about a lot of bible stories, but I really mean it this time.  This one of my favorite stories. The gospels that include this story tell it a little differently, but the common factor is that Jesus’ ministry changed because Jesus met this woman.  What started out for Jesus as a reform movement for Judaism, became a movement that included all people–and, I believe that his ministry pivoted around this encounter in the gospel accounts where this story is included. What a cool story.

Everything for Jesus changed after this encounter with the Canaanite woman.  Jesus began to hang out with non-Jews, he began to heal them, to eat with them, to share life with them.  All because this Gentile woman asked Jesus to heal her daughter.

I want to be careful here not to overlook the details of this encounter.  Because it wasn’t an easy one for Jesus or the Canaanite woman. Because Jesus said some mean, un-thinking words to the woman.  He compared her to a dog.

And the woman–even though she’s desperate for help–did not take this remark silently.  She gave Jesus a comeback that changed his ministry. When Jesus referred to her a a dog, she replied, “Even the dogs get the crumbs from the table.”  Even we Canaanites deserve a little something, Jesus. We Canaanites are human, you know. We are more than the savage stories written in your holy book.

When I read this story I notice the bravery of this woman.  That’s important. It’s a big deal that she responded to his remarks.  She didn’t have to. She could have walked away. But she stood up to Jesus. 

And I also notice that Jesus didn’t get indignant when this woman corrected him.  He wasn’t mad. He didn’t say, “I didn’t mean it like that”, or “I don’t think you understood what I was saying,” or “Why does everyone have to be so politically correct nowadays.”  He didn’t say, “Give me a break, lady” or “You Canaanites are so touchy.” He heard her correction. He received her admonition. He recognized that he was wrong to refer to her as a dog.  And he changed course because of it. 

Jesus changed because this woman, this foreigner, called him out.  

How many of you are wondering if I just suggested that Jesus sinned?  

This is not what I’m suggesting.  I think Jesus responded to this woman because that was what he was taught to do.  And when this Canaanite woman showed Jesus the ways his words were dehumanizing, Jesus learned something and changed.  Jesus’ sin here could have been if he continued to call Gentiles dogs, or continued to see Canaanites as less than the beautiful humans they were created by God to be. But he didn’t.  He changed. 

This call out from Jesus has me reflecting on my life and the times I’ve been called out.  I’ve certainly received my fair share of call outs from colleagues, from friends and family. I’ve been working on being grateful for them all.  I certainly haven’t always taken them kindly. Some of them have made me angry, hurt my feelings and left me reeling for days and even weeks.

But in the end, these call outs have shown me my growing edges, have forced me to at least consider change, rather than digging in my heels.  

And let’s face it, we cannot grow until we encounter other world views and perspectives that shake our own assumptions, that challenge the dominant, supersessionist language we use, and that force us to change.  

The first queer people I met in college forced me to change.  When one friend came out to me, and asked me, with tears in her eyes, “Am I going to hell because I love another woman?”, I had to change how I read the scripture, and how I understood love and desire.

When I met Jewish folks that called me out on the anti-semetic ways I had been taught to read the text, I had to change how I read the scripture, and how I talked about other religious groups.  

My first encounter with a Palestinian man happened at Christian Peacemaker Teams meetings in 2011.  He reflected on the ways that Christian Zionism has made life difficult for his people on the other side of the world. I had to change.

And when my family tells me I’m being petty and holding onto a feeling or experience it’s time to let go of, that is a moment of recognizing my need to change.  

Those behavior and perspective changes mean that life can’t go on as usual.  I had to live differently because of these moments. 

Jesus took the criticism of the Canaanite woman.  Because, she was right. There’s never a good or right reason to compare someone to an animal, to dehumanize them.  

In fact, Jesus went as far as to say that this woman’s child had been healed because she called out Jesus.  Jesus changed, this woman’s daughter was healed, and Jesus’ ministry took a turn towards inclusion.

But this isn’t the end of the story.  We read in the next story about how Jesus changed.  

When Jesus left the region where he met this Canaanite woman, Jesus met more people that needed healing.  And Jesus didn’t turn them away. In fact, Jesus was so transformed and moved by the encounter with the Canaanite woman, that he healed one person by putting his fingers in their ears, and uttering to the heavens “Ephphatha”, which means “be opened.”

This word, Ephphatha, is a Greek form of Aramaic, a language certainly used by the Canaanite woman.  Jesus was so transformed by his encounter with the Canaanite woman, that he used her language, her dialect, to call out to God.  

This is no magic word.  In fact, I wonder if this word is a reminder to Jesus that he too must stay open.  He must be opened by the encounters he has with those he met. In opening the ears of that person, Jesus himself knew how much more open his heart, his ears, his eyes and his mind needed to be as his ministry continued.  

Be opened.  Stay opened.  Ephphatha.

Our inclinations in difficult encounters is to be closed, to protect ourselves from criticism, to save face and avoid looking like a jerk.  

But what if we did the more difficult thing.  What if we called ourselves to Be Opened. What if we called out to God for an openness, a willingness to change, a desire to be moved in an unknown direction.  

Jesus was challenged by a foreign woman to see the work of God as bigger than just for the Israelites.  She asked Jesus to see her humanity, to see that God’s love was for the Canaanites, the Kushites, the Midionites, the Romans, the Greeks, the offenders, the victims, the poor, the rich, the included and excluded.

Jesus saw in this encounter that he had a bigger project than he had even anticipated.  And he took it on. He learned from his mistakes. He healed those he encountered. And he called on God–Ephphatha. Be opened.  Stay opened.

 Let us too be open to call outs, because they show us our boundaries and limits.  And they may even show us those places where we are being pushed. Ephphatha. Be opened. Stay Opened. AMEN.

Anna’s Song

Sermon Preached at Frazer Mennonite Church

Based on Luke 1: 46b-55

My name is Anna, and I’m the mother of Mary, who is the mother of Jesus.  You probably haven’t heard of me. And I’m not surprised. Women are rarely given a story line in our holy books.  

As we approach the birthday of my grandson, it seems important to tell you a few things about my beautiful daughter.  

But first a bit about me, because my story is connected to Mary’s.  I was named after Hannah, the mother of Samuel. I know that to you, my name doesn’t sound or look like Hannah, but trust me, in the Hebrew and Aramaic, it’s the same name.  Sometimes people will say, “What’s in a name?”–Well let me tell you, there’s a lot to that name. Being named after a distant ancestor has meant that her story has had a powerful impact on my life.  Did you know that the story of Hannah is one of the few places in our Holy Book where a woman plays an important role?

I was married to a wonderful man.  My husband and I tried for a long time to have a child. And it just didn’t happen.  I started to get too old for a child, and I had just about given up hope, when surprise! I was pregnant.  This is a lot like the story of Hannah.  That wasn’t lost on me or any of my family.  

All of the aunties convinced me that I was going to have a boy.  And I believed them. It was all a mother could want–a son to carry on her husband’s family name.  It was the greatest gift I could give my husband.

The pregnancy was hard.  I was sick the entire 9 months.  I am one of the few women that can boast that I lost weight during my pregnancy.  But that wasn’t just because of 9 months of morning sickness. About halfway through the pregnancy, my husband died in a freak accident.  So, I was pregnant, sick, alone and very scared. Having a son was the only thing that was keeping me going.  

In my sixth month of pregnancy, a few weeks after my husband died, I went to the temple.  I fell on my knees–in sickness, in exhaustion, and in deep need of God–and there, I promised God that I would dedicate this child, my only son, to God.  Like my ancestor, Hannah, I was so grateful for this gift of new life that I wanted to give this child back to the giver of all life. I promised that my only son would serve God all of his days.  

And then…I had a girl.  

I was surprised at first, as were all my Aunties.  And once the shock of a daughter wore off, I looked at my beautiful, perfect child, sleeping in her swaddling clothes in my arms and said, “She too is a gift from God.”  So, I named her “Mary”, which means “the child I wished for.” 

This precious gift from God could not serve as a priest as I had hoped or expected, but I knew that God could still use her.  

For 14 years it was just the two of us and the Aunties.  The Aunties and I would tell Mary stories of all the strong women in our history, the women that didn’t get names or speaking parts in our holy books.  

To my delight, it was Hannah’s story that Mary liked to hear the most.  Nearly every night she’d ask me to sing the song of Hannah, which I delighted in, of course. 

Hannah’s song went something like this: 

The bows of the warriors are broken, 

while those who stumble gain renewed strength. 

Those who had their fill sell themselves for crusts of bread, 

while those who were hungry are sated. 

Childless women bear seven children 

while mothers of many are forsaken. 

It is God who gives both life and death; 

it is God who casts people to hell and raises them again.  

It is God who both humbles and exalts;

God lifts the week from the dump and raises the poor from the cesspool, 

to place them among the mighty and promote them to seats of honor. 

That song of praise always made us happy, because some nights we went to bed hungry.  I knew what the longing of childlessness was, and I had experienced God’s hand in Mary’s birth.  We knew what humility and poverty felt like, and we were confident that God would one day raise us up.  

When Mary was 14 she found out she was pregnant.  It was a mother’s worst nightmare. She was 14, and not yet married.  She was a good girl, and I worried that she was pregnant because she trusted someone she shouldn’t, or because someone overpowered her on some back street in Nazareth.  

But she told me that a messenger from God visited her, and told her that God had a plan for her, that she was going to be the vessel for God’s son to come to this earth.

I don’t think Mary realized just how dangerous this pregnancy was for her.  It would bring great shame and embarrassment to our family, and it could lead to some family members taking it upon themselves to end her life and the life of the child in her.  Better a dead Mary than a shamed family, the men might say.  

But sweet Mary did not seem phased by it.  She seemed to have planted the song of Hannah deep within her.  While I was dubious about this angel, Mary knew. While I was worried about Mary’s safety and honor, Mary was confident.  She had been called by God to do this thing.  

And, I had promised my only child, my dear sweet Mary, to God.  So, I had to trust that this infant growing inside her was from God, that this pregnancy was God using Mary the way I had asked God to use her.  

I have to admit my own misgivings about this whole thing.  Mary was on board, as was cousin Elizabeth, far earlier than I was.  But, I was feeling cautious and protective.  

And, then I heard Mary’s song.  When Mary and Elizabeth saw each other, both of them experienced their son’s leaping in their wombs.  There was joy there in the middle of a terribly uncertain time.  

And in joy, Mary began to sing. 

My soul proclaims your greatness and my Spirit rejoices in God my Savior.  

Because you have looked with favor on your lowly servant, and from this day forward all will call me blessed.  

Because you, God, have done great things, and holy is your name.  

Your mercy is from age to age, for those who fear you.  

You have show strength with your arm

And scattered the proud in their deceit, 

You have deposed the mighty from their thrones and raised the lowy to high places.   You have filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty. You have come to the aid of your servant–the promise you made to your ancestors.  

Mary’s song stopped me in my tracks.  It was both familiar and unfamiliar. It was both Hannah’s song and Mary’s own new song. She had taken the praises of Hannah, the song I sang to her her entire life, and made it her own.  

When I heard Mary sing, I won’t say that my worries melted away.  But the worries were smoothed over with the joy I felt for Mary and for this child to come.  I made a promise to God that I would give my child to God. The temple wouldn’t take a girl, but God still would.  And God did. God used Mary to bring this child into the world. This child, our hope for the future.  

Mary wrote to me recently–reflecting on Jesus’ birth–and it was everything a mother would ever want to hear.  In this letter said that it was because of the strong women in her life like me that she had the courage to be strong.  It was because of the stories the Aunties and I told her about her female ancestors, and especially, that she could sing her song.  Those stories, prayers, and songs were rooted deeply in Mary, so that when her time came to be used by God, she knew what was happening, and she knew the song to sing.  

Mary hasn’t stopped singing that song either.  In fact, she’s been teaching it to Jesus. I love hearing him run around the house singing about God’s mercy, and the ways that God will scatter the proud, and crush tyrants.  Those words are being rooted deeply into his heart. Who knows what will come of those seeds planted in him? Whatever it is, I know that all of that is because Mary said yes to that angel of God.  I can’t wait to see what God will do with my grandson.  

More than Being Nice

Sermon Preached on 12.1.1019 at Frazer Mennonite Church

Based on Psalm 122

Thanksgiving is my absolute favorite holiday.  Christmas is fine, but it comes with a lot of expectations.  But Thanksgiving is much more relaxed on my family. We all make things we like, and we all eat the delicious, fatty, carb heavy, sleep inducing foods that I otherwise stay away from the other 364 days of the year.  

And after pie, our family pulls out the instruments and we sing and play music, often badly, but usually with with good humor.  

But that’s not to say that Thanksgiving isn’t stressful.  This year, I labored on pies with my niece for hours. We were really proud of them.  They looked and smelled delicious and I could not wait to sink my teeth into that peach pie.  A few minutes before the meal, one of the pies fell off the counter and smashed in its glass pie plate.  My niece was totally fine about it, but I had a little bit of a meltdown. Words were yelled at that pie.  Unkind words.  

We also had–at one point–too many cooks in the kitchen, and I may have directed some forceful energy into getting people out of there so we could open the oven safely.  And, for some of the younger folks in the crowd, overstimulation of the holiday resulted in some bad behavior here or there.  

But we were together with our family and that was all I wanted.  

I am aware that if I was with other parts of my family, the holiday would have been hard.  I have family members who like to get their digs in about politics at holiday gatherings, because they know what I believe. I have family members who will say cruel things to my kids but when called out on it will say, “I was just kidding!  Lighten up!” Or–and this is my pet peeve–will come into my home, and not offer to help with the dishes, or say “thanks” for the meal and the effort put into it. But, they will offer lots of “helpful suggestions” for how I might improve my turkey, or ask “Why did you set the table like that?”  

Holidays are wonderful and difficult and complicated.  

So, for those of you that had a difficult, tense Thanksgiving where words were exchanged that you can’t take back, know that you are definitely not the only one in the room with that experience.  Sometimes time with family is just difficult.  

The Psalmist writes: 

For the sake of my family and friends, 

I say, “Peace be within you!”

For the sake of the Lord our God, 

I will seek your good.

Psalm 122 seems to have been written by someone who’s been to some holiday events with family.  The Psalmist was praising God about heading off to the center of the known universe at the time–Jerusalem.  There in Jerusalem, the Psalmist rejoiced at the whole people of God, and all the tribes of Israel, converging onto the Holy City to praise God.  It was a holiday, a party, where they one could see all the cousins you hadn’t seen since the last holiday. You also see the overly critical Aunt, and that close talking uncle with halitosis.  But they are family, so what are you going to do. 

Here in this holy city all the tribes–all of God’s people–were united.  They probably didn’t all vote for the same candidates in their elections. Some were probably Bernie bros, others were die hard fans of their sitting president, and others were wishing that the last president could run again.  

And there they were in their family home town of Jerusalem–the center of their known universe–together.  

And here, as the extended family gathered, the author of this Psalm blessed the gathering place, saying, “May those who love their hometown prosper! May peace be in these walls!  May your city walls always be secure.” Even as family with differing views and opinions gathered, the Psalmist wished for strong walls. 

And then the Psalmist went from a general well wish to a personal blessing, saying:

For the sake of my family and friends, 

I say, “Peace be within you!”

For the sake of the Lord our God, 

I will seek your good.

I’m intrigued by these words from the Psalmist, because they aren’t the normal way of saying things, now or in biblical times.  

The Psalmist wrote:  For the sake of family and friends, I say, “Peace be within you.”  Not just with you. WIthin you. It’s a bigger blessing than the one we usually give when we pass the peace.  It’s a blessing that the Psalmists family find peace within themselves. Because it doesn’t always happen around the dinner table.  

Peace be within you, family, as we gather here within the strong walls of our beloved hometown.  

This is a peace that goes beyond civil conversations at the dinner table.  It’s a peace beyond keeping it together while you eat with family for three hours.  It’s a deep peace, a wholeness that can only come from God. 

The Psalmist also writes, “For the sake of the Lord OUR God, I will seek your good.”  The psalmist doesn’t say, “For the sake of MY God.” The psalmist doesn’t claim to have God all to themselves, or even say that the other person might not know God because of whatever wacky views they think their relatives might have.  The Psalmist just says, “For the sake of our God”, for the sake of the God we hold in common.  

And then the Psalmist goes on to say, “For the sake of our God, I will seek YOUR good.” 

It wasn’t a mean gesture, it wasn’t a nasty word.  It was what sounds like an honest attempt at seeking the good for all of the family gathered around the table, for all the family gathered within the hometown walls, even if there were disagreements.  

Disagreements is not a modern family invention.  It’s not something that began in this country. Disagreements go back as far as their earliest biblical stories.  God created us, gave us agency, and we dealt with that agency by fighting with our siblings, by splitting up families with bad blood, with words we couldn’t take back.  

So that conflict you have with your family member is nothing new.  Every family has them, going back as far as Cain and Abel. 

What can be new, however, is how we respond to those conflicts.  We can choose for the sake of our common God, our common faith, our common genes, our common humanity to seek the good for each other.  

But know this:  Seeking the good for other people does not always mean seeking the easy thing.  Sometimes seeking the good means we say the hard things, we name those old family patterns, we face the elephant at the dinner table.

And if it is our pattern to be the namer of things all the time, perhaps seeking your family member’s good means just letting something go for once.

What would it mean for us during this season to offer peace within our family members?  What would it mean to work for the good of our family, even those with whom we disagree?  I’d like to think that these simple reframes of our time with family might be transformative.  

And these simple words from the Psalmist apply to us at church too.  Can we seek our congregation’s good, even the good of those in this community with whom we disagree?  Can we pray for peace within the person across the aisle, even as we struggle to shake their hand during the passing of the peace?

Today we begin advent, the season of waiting, and the season of expectation.  The season holds a lot of magic for our younger people, and as we get older, it holds a lot of expectation, anxiety, and frustration.  

This season as Advent, as we wait and prepare for God to do a new thing, we have the gift of family, and the gift of friendship to nourish and sustain us.  These gifts are not always easy. Sometimes these relationships are fraught with conflict and disagreements. But they are still a gift to us. 

Let’s set our minds and hearts towards the good for our family, our friends, our church and community members.  This could be the good thing that God is doing among us–transforming our families and congregations, one gracious act at a time.  AMEN.