Epiphany 2A

It’s clear that we shouldn’t be looking to John the Baptist for advice on how to grow a church. He sends his best people over to another preacher, who looks surprised to see them.

“What are you looking for?” Jesus asks these strangers at his door. “What are you doing here? What do you want from me?” are questions that he was probably REALLY asking.

But he simply says, “What are you looking for?”

It’s a good question, though, isn’t it? Perhaps THE question. Especially for those who have a sense that God is up to something in their lives. 



Those who are looking for more from God than what they were told as children, those who who have a hunch that the universe is made up of more than that what the eyes see, the ears hear, and the fingers touch. 



Those who have a gaping God-sized hole dug deep within them that seems to get wider and more cavernous with each flip of the calendar.

“What are YOU looking for?”

That question could be directed at us here at worship. We come to worship looking for something, perhaps we can’t put that something into words. 

We come looking for God, or an experience of God. Where the majestic power of God washes over us, and we can see more possibility for our lives than when we walked in, and see the world with fresh eyes when we leave.



Or we come looking for community, to worship and fellowship with other believers, to know that we aren’t alone in our faith, but that there are others who can support and encourage us as we walk the Christian path together. 



Or we come looking for meaning in a seemingly meaningless world. Hope in a seemingly hope-less world. Good news in a bad news world.



Or we just come, not knowing what we’re looking for, but hoping to recognize it when we see it.

I’m sure it was the same with John’s disciples. There must have something about John’s fiery preaching that lit them up, and sent them running from their lives to follow him, feasting his every word, and soaking in his teaching. 
They probably didn’t understand much of what John was saying, but they knew what he preached was true. Truer than anything else they’d ever heard.

Which was why it must have been puzzling for them to find themselves knocking on the door of another preacher. There must be something more about this Jesus if John was sending them to him. And what’s this “Lamb of God” stuff about anyway? 

But if John wanted them to follow this other teacher, then follow him they must. After all, John pointed to God.

“What are you looking for?” the new teacher asks.

“Where are you staying?” they answer.

Where are you staying? That’s an odd reply, don’t you think? Why would they want to know that? What’s that got to do with what they’re looking for? Is where Jesus hangs his sandals a clue to what he was all about?

But the new rabbi doesn’t bat an eye. “Come and see” Jesus replies, and with that reply comes a fresh batch of recruits for his start-up religious movement.

Clearly, these new conscripts were impressed by what they saw and heard. “We have found messiah!” they announce to anyone within earshot. 
But did they know what they were talking about? That word, “Messiah,” meant a lot of things to a lot of people. And while that sounded like good news to them, some would be REALLY disappointed when they found out what that word really meant.

Many people were expecting royalty, someone to kick the Romans out of the holy land and bring in a kingdom like the one they had when David ruled that land. When other countries were afraid of them, when everyone had enough to eat, when arts and culture flourished, when God showed them the favour they believed was their divine birthright.

Others saw a religious reformer who would return God’s people to prayer and devotion, where worship was central to peoples’ lives, where the bible was read by everyone, and where people structured their lives around scripture.

And still others believed the messiah would rescue people from their earthly lives, blow up the planet, punish unbelievers and fry evil doers, and then lift the righteous into heaven.

It seems that not much has changed in 2000 years. That could be why the question “What are you looking for?” is filled with so much dynamite. We’re all looking for something. We’re all placing our hopes on Jesus even if those hopes have more to do with us than with God.

“What are you looking for?” is a question often rooted in selfish desires rather than a pursuit of something greater and truer than ourselves. 



I may be looking for God, but my motivates certainly aren’t pure. I want God to give me a great life without me having to do any heavy lifting. I want God to give me certainty rather than faith. I want God to bless everyone I love and curse those who cut me off in traffic. 



When I’m looking for God those are the desires hiding underneath my pursuit of the divine. And that’s why God isn’t terribly interested in giving me what I’m looking for.

What we’re looking for isn’t always what God wants to give us. Just look at what happened in the bible. The people wanted a King; God gave them a lamb. The people wanted their enemies destroyed; God gave them mercy. The people wanted a return to their glory days; God gave them forgiveness.

That’s why it’s hard to be a Christian who believes that God does something in our lives. It’s hard because we can’t control God. We can’t offer up our hopes and fears in prayer, and  - poof! - God answers in just the way we want.

All throughout the bible we see God ignoring the peoples’ cries then going and doing whatever God wants. But usually, God’s actions are more life-giving than what the people want.

So what are YOU looking for? 

Do you believe you will find it here, among God’s people, within the Word proclaimed and the sacraments received? 

Do you believe that, in this house of prayer and praise, together with other believers, gathered among the saints, you will encounter the living God revealed in Jesus? 

Do you arrive here, at this hour, trusting that God will meet you - in this moment - as you worship?

Your answer, I’m guessing is “Yes”....and...“No.” You look for God where God promises to be. And we do find God here. We receive God’s forgiveness and remember that we are indeed children of a living and loving God.

We hear the proclamation of God’s new world bursting into ours. On communion Sundays we receive God’s presence in the bread and the wine, believing that in the loaf and the cup, Jesus dwells within us, so we eat and we drink, and are satisfied. Within these walls, we pray with trust, and we sing with hope.

But then there are those moments when God can often seem like a ghost, a flicker in the corner of your eye, a slippery truth that you can’t quite grasp, a meal half eaten. 



When your questions don’t have any answers. When your tears are more real than God’s comfort. When the bread is stale. The wine is sour. The road is dark. When morning seems so far away.

That’s when John proclaims, “Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.” It’s because of those things that keep us from God that Jesus came and lived among us. John didn’t proclaim his message to a confident crowd of the self-assured and fiercely faithful. 



But John gathered and sent a broken band of believers, still fresh from the battle, proudly baring the scars that life gave them, united only in their questions, and in their pursuit of God, not knowing where that quest might lead them, but daring to believe that the journey itself IS the destination.

So, when you hear “Behold the lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world,” know that you are in good company. Know that your questions give you faith. Know that your scars are your proclamation. Know that your losses are your announcement of compassion.

Know that if you feel like your faith is constantly shifting beneath your feet, that’s because faith is always moving, always looking around the next corner, always peering over the bordering horizon. 


For some, faith is like a cathedral, fixed in one place, immoveable, splendid in solemnity, majestically lighting up  the night, and towering over all who sit under its shadow.



But for most of you, most of the time, faith is more like staggering along a dark trail, and your flashlight’s batteries are drained. So you rely on a voice you can barely hear, guiding you to where you should step, not being able to see what’s ahead, but trusting that the one leading you has already been there and knows the way, and can safely bring you home.

It’s the voice that says, “Come and see” that is the lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. The messiah we have found, and the messiah who has found us. 



The messiah who called you by name, and set you on your path, with you not knowing where the road leads, but trusting that voice to guide you, step-by-step, when the darkness arrives, who lifts you when you stumble, and when your body grows weary and you fall asleep, carries you the rest of the way, and wakens you when you reach your final destination.

May this be so among us. Amen.

Baptism of Jesus B

We met John the Baptist in Advent – two Sundays in a row! And we encounter him again today. And he’s in no better a mood now than he was then.

But Mark left out the juicy bits of John`s story. He took his scissors to the moments when John’s venom was most poisonous. John had a few choice words for King Herod and his wife. John didn’t like the fact that Herod married his brother’s wife. In fact, it was against Jewish law. And if Herod didn’t like John’s well-aimed preaching he should have taken it up with God, not John. John was just doing his job.

It might have been that joltingly honest preaching that drew Jesus – and everyone else - to John that morning at the Jordan River. John was refreshing. Unique. Different from other preachers who either told people what they wanted to hear, or lined their pockets with the pennies of little old ladies. John wasn’t warm and fuzzy. But you knew that he’d give you the straight goods when it came to the things of God.

That day, in the river of freedom, where thousands of years prior, God’s people crossed from slavery into the land that God promised them, was where Jesus joined himself to that saving story, where his mandate as God’s Son was given to him. Where the affirmation of the Almighty wrapped around him like sun-soaked blanket.

“You are my Son, the beloved, with whom I am well pleased...” Who wouldn’t want to hear that from God? Or from any parent for that matter.

But lying underneath this affirmation from the divine was a summons. A calling that might have made Jesus’ blood turn to ice.

If Jesus was God’s Son - Israel’s Messiah - the one to save people from their sins and create a world of justice and mercy, then that didn’t mean that he could simply bask in the warm embrace of heavenly approval. He couldn’t walk around town all Messiahy cashing in on his sacred status.

Being God’s Son meant he had to go and do things that the messiah was supposed to do. Being the messiah wasn’t a state of divine being. It was a job description. A letter of conscription from the only one in the universe who won’t take “no” for an answer.

Although, I’m sure saying “no” crossed his mind. And so, I wonder if before he dipped his toe in the water for his heavenly bath, he was tempted to take another walk around the block. Or hop on the next bus out of town.

Maybe Jesus’ temptation didn’t begin or end, like we assume, in the desert to where he ran after being dunked by John. I wonder if his temptation anxiety started well before he found himself in the Jordan River. I wonder if he was tempted to run away from his calling. From his task as God’s Son. I wonder if he was tempted to escape and hide from who he was.

If he was tempted to stay in Nazareth and take over the carpentry business from Joseph, maybe settle down, get married, and crank out a few kids, I don’t think anyone would have blamed him. After all, it wasn’t a bad life. The work was steady. He was close to family. And there were no crosses following him wherever he went.

I’m sure he had all that in the back of his mind when he followed John into the water. I’m sure he knew that, once he was dipped in the muddy river, his life was over. Everything he was and did was gone. He knew the weight that was being placed on his shoulders. It was a new beginning for Jesus. A call into God’s vision of the world that he had to follow. A path that led to the Kingdom of God - the kingdom that dwelled within his very being.

“You are my Son, the beloved, with whom I am well pleased...” The next, unspoken, sentence was “Now get to work.”

Work on healing the sick and raising the dead. Work on preaching good news to the poor and setting the captives free. Work on giving sight to blind and comforting the broken hearted.

Work on showing God’s Kingdom love to a world in pain. Work on forgiving people’s sins. Work on setting the world straight through mercy and justice.

That’s quite the job description, isn’t it?

I’m glad that’s his job and not mine. I wouldn’t want to be saddled with such a burden.

But then again, who were all those people who being baptized with Jesus? What did God want for them?

As it turns out, Jesus wasn’t the only one being called into a new life that day in those waters. God was calling them into the same life that Jesus was called into. Baptism isn’t just a ritual that we perform as an entry way into the church family. And baptism isn’t just a one-off salvation ticket.

Baptism is about being recruited - drafted - into a movement. In baptism, we are joined to Jesus’ death and resurrection, so we can live resurrection lives in a world so often more interested in death.

Baptism is about God’s light shining through us in a dark world. It’s about binding the world’s wounds. It’s about being part of a movement that is bigger than ourselves, God’s movement of renewing everything about the world, where God wipes every tear from our eyes, where crying and pain are extinguished, where the hungry are satisfied, and the dead rise breathing new life.

That’s the life into which God has called YOU. That’s the task that God has placed in front of YOU. Not to earn special favour, or gain some sort of heavenly reward, or attain special spiritual status.

But God has called you into this life because that mission who God is and that’s what God does, and you are in Jesus, and Jesus is in God.
You have been joined to Jesus’ death and resurrection. You have been drafted into Christ’s mission. You have been named and claimed as God’s own child through your baptism into Christ so that you walk the earth as a healing presence.

It’s because God looked upon you, saw everything you’ve done, looked over your pains, your weaknesses, your regrets, and your failures, God has looked you up and down and inside out, and God open the divine arms, wrapped your in divine love, and said, “You are my beloved child, with whom I am well pleased…Now, you have a job to do.”

May this be so among us. Amen.

Advent 3B

If you think you’re having a deja vu experience, don’t worry, you are. For some reason, the lectionary gives us John the Baptist two Sundays in a row during Advent. Why they think we need two doses of the wilderness preacher is a mystery to me.

But here we are with John’s version of, umm, John. “John” must have been a popular name back then because it takes an accountant to keep track of them all in the bible. So John, the writing evangelist, tells us about John the Baptist as someone who plays a specific role in the salvation story. The Baptist howls in the wilderness, preparing people to receive God’s anointed one.

The Baptist wasn’t like anyone else they’d ever heard. Which is why John had to make sure that people didn’t mistake the Baptist for “The Light.” John emphasized that the Baptist was simply “...a voice crying out in the wilderness...”

“A voice crying out in the wilderness...”

I don’t know what your experience has been with this expression, but, for me, there’s always been a kind of romance to this saying. The romance of adventure, the romance of passion, of fighting the good fight, of challenging the status quo, of siding with the oppressed, of battling injustice, of speaking uncomfortable truths to power.

But to many unbelieving ears, saying that we are “ a voice crying out in the wilderness...” is akin to Don Quixote “tilting at windmills...” but proud of it.

And as churches are declining in the west, and we face our own challenges at St. Paul’s, we may be tempted to see ourselves simply as “a voice crying out in the wilderness” because it gives us comfort when we don’t see our church bearing the kind of fruit that it once did. We get used to being marginalized, justifying our diminished state.

We are a voice crying out in the wilderness, although we are in the city centre, we are spiritually hours away from the power centres, far from the rushing crowds, hidden amongst the trees, and miles off the main road. To find us you have to look for us. In fact, people walk by us not even realizing we are here.

So, some Christians are tempted to take heart in withdrawing from the mainstream and opting out of society. We celebrate how different we are, as if “different” somehow means “better.”

If you want to hear what we say, you really have to listen, you really have to want to hear it. We are a voice crying out in the wilderness, you have to stop what you’re doing and unplug your iPod to make out our words.

To prepare for my ministry with and among you I read a series of books on small churches, and how they’re different from large churches. Many of the authors noted that many small churches function like they’re large churches. Especially if they’re part of a denomination that requires them to have certain core programming. They rightly note that when small churches mimic the programming, staffing, and worship of larger churches, resources are stressed to the snapping point. Members burn out. Bank accounts get emptied. And morale plummets.

And that’s true.

So, one guy - a small church pastor - in an effort to combat this phenomenon used a baseball analogy to help small churches getter a better perspective on their place in the world.

He said to think of the large church like Major League Baseball. The large church is the New York Yankees, with their inflated budgets and high batting averages, and enough resources to try to snap up Japanese players. These are the big boys.

Small churches, by contrast, are like little league, where everyone gets together on weekends and has fun. There are few home runs, but no one makes the hall of fame. Friendships are built and everyone goes home smiling.

I almost threw the book across the room when I read that. Unless I totally missed his point, he seemed to be saying that large churches are the experts, the ones REALLY good at what they do. These are the pros from which the rest of us learn, to whom we can aspire, and for whom we can cheer.

And WE - the small churches - are the amateurs, the children, who are still learning how to be church, and perhaps, someday make it to the big leagues. But really - let’s not kid ourselves - the best we can do is play beer ball on Saturday evenings.

Although I’ve only been here just over a month, I can say with absolute certainty, that while St. Paul’s is a small church, you are NOT amateurs. You are NOT spiritual children. This church is NOT little league. Your hard work, dedication, and faithfulness are NOT worth less than a large downtown church. You are a people with unique strengths and talents that can make a powerful impact where you are.

I’m guessing that the guy who used that baseball analogy didn’t thoroughly think through the consequences of that comparison. Other than it being untrue and insulting, it also lets small churches off the missional hook. It allows small churches to think, “We’re small, we’re not as a good as the big church down the street, so what can we do?”

Spiritual and missional inadequacy is a disease that plagues small churches. And it’s often nurtured by leaders, who, worn out after years of fighting uphill battles to make the church grow, convince themselves that their losses are victories.

Some theologians have taken this a step further saying that large churches sell out to consumer culture while small churches remain true to God’s mustard seed vision of the church. That they are the voice crying out in the wilderness, away from the world’s power centres, and siding with the world’s forgotten.

I would agree with this, except that many theologians and small church pastors who proudly proclaim the purity of the small church’s faithfulness against the ecclesiastical Wal-Marts, are often the first ones to run to their Facebook pages to announce the “full church [they] had to today.” Everyone craves significance. And in our consumer culture, size presumes impact.

And those who who blithely say that “size doesn’t matter” are often the large church pastors for whom resources are not a problem. Or they’re small church leaders who are intentionally blind to their church’s financial reality.

So, instead of baseball to compare the size and importance of churches, I prefer to use a musical analogy. I like to think of the big church as a symphony. It requires massive resources to keep it functioning. Some music is specifically written for them, simply because of its make up. And when it’s performed well, the results can be stunningly transcendent. The symphony is its own unique form.

A small church is like a chamber ensemble. Much fewer resources are needed to keep them playing. The players need lots of eye contact and body signals to keep them in sync. There’s an intimacy that’s lost on the symphony, both among they musicians and the listener. And composers write music specifically for this small group. And, again, the chamber ensemble is its own unique form.

So, is a chamber ensemble “little league” and the symphony “big league”? The Tokyo String Quartet would certainly have an answer to that question.

And like a chamber ensemble, every part is needed to make the music come alive. In a symphony, if a violist scratches her nose, the music isn’t affected because there are other violists playing the same part.

But in a brass trio, if the trombone player sneezes, he blows a hole in the music, and people notice.

That’s like us here at St. Paul’s. When your part isn’t being played, people notice. Here, at St. Paul’s, we need YOU to make our little chamber ensemble play the music that God has put in front of us. St. Paul’s needs YOU to play the music of our mission, our mission to live and proclaim God’s love and mercy in the world. The mission of God’s Kingdom come to earth in Jesus. The mission of sharing God’s justice, grace, peace, and joy to everyone who walks through or past our doors.

St. Paul’s needs YOU and the powerful gifts that YOU have. YOU have an important and unique part to play in the chamber ensemble that is St. Paul’s. St. Paul’s can’t function without YOU. When YOU aren’t here, there’s a hole in our music. When you ARE here, we come together in joyful harmony. And together, we make music to the praise of God.

St. Paul’s may be a voice crying out in the wilderness. But you are a MIGHTY voice, preparing the world to receive its saviour, making a path for Jesus to enter peoples’ lives, shining God’s light in the dark corners of the world.

As we move forward in mission, as we discern together the future that God has for us, please know that YOU are a part of that future. God has put you HERE to do great and wonderful things for God. YOU have a part to play in God’s salvation song.

May this be so among us. Amen!