On becoming a star--It's in your job description--Just ask John the Baptist

 

Advent 2023

 

“A man named John was sent from God.
He came for testimony, to testify to the light,
so that all might believe through him. 
He was not the light, but came to testify to the light.”
–John 1: 6-8

 

 

Sitting on my front porch, reading the Gospel of John, I was struck by this familiar verse. I heard something new this morning hat I had not heard before: a job description!  This is John the Baptist’s job description.  His job was to testify to the light.  To tell the world what he knew to be true, so that all might believe. Very simple, very straightforward; no complex language about quotas or expectations, no official title, no qualifications, no list of duties—and no terms of severance.  Just the simple and straightforward, open-ended call to testify to the light, with the goal that “all” might believe.

 

Basically John’s job was to be a Burma-Shave sign (a Buc-ees sign for you youngsters out there). He was called to be a road sign pointing the way to The Light. That’s it.  And it occurred to me that his job description doesn’t just apply to John the Baptist.  Doesn’t it actually apply to all of us? Isn’t that the job description of every Christian? We are all called to be a testimony to the Light—to the love of God, to the saving grace of Christ. How we do it isn’t described, isn’t spelled out. Some people may do it through words, others through fasting and prayers, and still others through lives of sacrifice and service.  But the plain truth is we are all called to testify to the light—to live as a sign for others, that they might believe.

 

For most of us, our testimony may go unseen by the vast majority of the world around us.  Our testimony is one of patience and kindness to a stranger: standing in line at the pharmacy, we smile and speak a gentle word to the young mother struggling with her fussing child, or we speak a word of encouragement and cheer to the UPS delivery guy putting packages at our door. Maybe your testimony is to get up at 3 in the morning and walk with a crying baby so that your spouse can sleep. Maybe your testimony is not just to give a $20 bill to the homeless person asking for money, but to also ask his or her name, and to give them your name. Maybe even shake hands and let them know that you will pray for them.  Let them know they are seen, they matter.  

 

For so many of us, our testimony will never make it into a book or even be remembered much beyond the moment, but it will be a testimony, and it will plant a seed, and it may be that when we are all gathered together into that Light, into the Kingdom we call Heaven—you will be greeted by someone you don’t remember, but they will remember you, and that one little act of kindness that lit a spark in their soul... that testimony of love.

 

There is one more thing this little passage reminds me of, especially at Christmas time. And that is a certain star. We see it on so many Christmas cards, but do we ever ponder what it means? It is shining there, above a stable, above a manger, showing us the way.  For the wise-men, that star was a kind of testimony, a road sign, guiding them on their journey.  But even with all its splendor and glory, it wasn’t the actual goal, it was just a sign—a flashing neon testimony to something far greater: a homeless, cold, and exhausted child sleeping in a manger. As we unwrap presents and prepare our holiday tables, let us remember that; the true gift of Christmas is God come to us in the form of a helpless child. Remembering that, pondering it, living it... it will give your life a radiance that will shine for others. It may not get you mentioned at the next Academy Awards or Music Awards, but it can definitely make you a star.  Just ask John the Baptist.

A Christmas box from a friend

 “…one gift replacing another…”

--John 1:16

 

Gift giving has been on my mind lately.  Tis the season, you know.  In particular, I have been thinking about this one friend of ours who has sent us a gift box every year for the past –almost 30 years it seems.  She was a friend of mine in college, and over the years we have kept in touch by phone and mail, but our lives have gone off in their different directions. After college she moved back to Denver. She married, has 3 grown sons and a daughter. My wife and I are godparents to her daughter and she is godmother to one of ours. Like most people, we keep in touch by phone call and Facebook and letters, and remind each other how much we are loved. But, Barb is different from most friends.  She takes this whole friendship thing to another level.  And it includes gift-wrapping!  Every year just before Christmas she sends us a rather large box (or two--sometimes) filled with wrapped presents.  And when I say filled, I mean filled. She sends us a box full of presents; multiple presents for each member of the household. Books, toys, jewelry, clothing, candy, kitchenware, herbs from her garden. I think she even sent the cats a present one year. Each gift is wrapped and labeled, often with a silly note. And, keep in mind, she’s been doing this without fail for almost 30 years now. Some of the presents are silly, but some are beautiful, and so perfect—they seem like gifts from God. 

 

For instance, a couple of years back she gave me a black plastic fountain pen. It came in a goofy retro ‘50s packaging and looked like it was something she may have just tossed in at the last minute—thinking: Herman likes to write. He might have fun with this. And yet, it quickly become my favorite pen—and now, I do all my writing with it.  I think it may have even changed the way I write! The pen seemed to be filled not with ink, but with words, with ideas, with poems, with inspiration. But, I guess what it was actually filled with was love.

 

We joke sometimes about it, but it has become a part of our Christmas that we all look forward to. Not the presents themselves as much as the box! It has become for us a sign of Christmas, of the promise of Christmas. Has the box from Barb arrived yet?

 

There have been years when her gifts were just about the only presents under our tree.  And though we have on occasion reciprocated with boxes of biscotti and books and crafts and other homemade items, we have never met her level of generosity, nor have we ever been as regular and timely.  Yet still, regardless of our efforts, every year, the box from Barb arrives and on Christmas morning we open it with delight.  Her generosity, her constant and abundant generosity came to mind as I was thinking about this phrase from the beginning of John’s Gospel.

 

“…one gift replacing another…”

 

In other translations it reads something like “grace in place of grace already given…” or “grace upon grace.” Gift upon gift… Whichever translation, I hear in it a statement of overflowing abundance and generosity.  A vision of God’s love; a seemingly bottomless box of personally wrapped presents poured forth again and again! As soon as we open one gift, we find another. And if we aren’t happy with that, there is one more and one more after that.

Reading God’s word, I hear not a message of judgment and warning, so much as a message of love and generosity.  Again and again, the prophets remind us of God’s tender love for His creation.  They remind us again and again of His seemingly endless mercy and the abundance of His grace, His love for His creation. Each time we fail, we stumble and fall, He is there to lift us up and offer us again some new sign of His love, always replacing one gift with another, one grace with another, one covenant laid over another.  Until finally He gives Himself wholly and utterly into our hands. Taking upon Himself all our sins—our stumbles and falls, our rejection of His many gifts—He becomes the gift itself. Unexpected, undeserved, He is the gift.

 

Like that box from Barbara, that box overflowing with gift upon gift, God’s love comes to us grace upon grace and here at Christmas we are called to come together in joy over the abundance of God’s love.  It comes to us again and again, renewed again and again in great and small ways alike—even in the simplest and humblest gifts, individually wrapped and waiting for us to open with delight.  It may look like a Pez dispenser or a bookmark or a box of tea, a pair of socks, or even a newborn baby in a borrowed manger. Thank you Barb for helping me remember, the gift is always love.

The Good Samaritan & the Christmas Card

“A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among robbers, and they stripped him 

and beat him, and went away leaving him half dead.  And by chance a priest was going down on 

that road, and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. Likewise a Levite also, when he came 

to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, who was on a journey, 

came upon him; and when he saw him, he felt compassion, and came to him and bandaged up his 

wounds, pouring oil and wine on them; and he put him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn 

and took care of him. On the next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper and 

said, ‘Take care of him; and whatever more you spend, when I return I will repay you.’

--Luke 10:30-35

(This is a passage from a book I am writing. Fr. Leo is an elderly priest at a small inner-city parish.  And he is on the edge of retirement and some of his parishioners whisper that maybe he should have already retired many years ago. But, he carries on quietly and tenderly and awkwardly loving his flock and trying his best to serve them. He is a minor character in the book, but I was having fun with this homily and wanted to share it. I think it fits in with my meditations so far.)

      Fr. Leo closed the gospel and looked at the red leathered cover with the gold embossing. He touched it; lingered his fingers in the indentation of the cross. Perhaps he should shut up, he thought. Looking at the pews he nodded to himself: Yes. Perhaps I should. He sighed, and began to step away from the ambo. But something occurred to him. And he felt a need to just say this one thing. So, he paused in his reticent retreat and turned back. Opening the Gospel again, he smiled—embarrassed. “I thought about not speaking this morning. The Gospel; the parable itself saying so much. What could I add? Why should I try? But… like most priests, I guess I like to muddy the waters.” He laughed.

Margaret smiled politely. Henry nodded and smiled. There were a few polite snickers.

“Nevertheless, I had to say this, because it’s July and the other day I was thinking about Christmas. Like that old Preston Sturges movie: Christmas in July. I think it starred Dick Powell. And who was the woman? I can’t remember. But I remember Powell. I remember him more from the radio. He played Richard Diamond on the radio: the crooning detective. Oh, the memories that can come haunt you. Don’t you know. And they do. As you get older. Right Margaret? I mean, not that you’re old. Oh dear. Never. Oh dear. I didn’t. Anyway. Anyway. I was thinking about Christmas. In July. Isn’t that strange? It sounds strange. To me, at least. But it all started because I found an old flyer on the side of my refrigerator. For the Knights of Columbus; the Friday Fish Fry. During Lent. I was having lunch in the rectory and while my tomato soup was warming up I thought I would clear off some of the old paperwork taped to the refrigerator. So full. Oh, you wouldn’t believe.” He glanced around the church with a sly smile on his lips. “Of course, none of you know what I’m talking about. Right? You don’t have old notes and flyers and artwork taped to your refrigerator? Do you?”

He smiled and waited.

“Of course not. That’s just us old guys.” He glanced at Margaret, but judging by the look in her eyes he realized he should exempt her from any further references. “Well… So, here it is the middle of summer and I am just now removing the Lenten Fish Fry notice off the refrigerator. But, if you think that’s bad, let me tell you. This is the bad part. Beneath the flyer there was a Christmas card. I guess I forgot about it or I was saving it. Who knows. I’m old.” He laughed. No one else did. Except a polite chuckle from the back. Shaking his head, Father began again:

“Feeling a little foolish, I took it off. It was one of those –you know—one of those inexpensive cards. Not even a Hallmark. But I like Christmas cards. I always have. Even the cheap ones. I like the pictures. I like the sentiments. I guess I’m a sentimental kind of guy. Right?”

He shrugged his shoulders and smiled shyly. “The way my voice is always breaking and I’m always tearing up. You know. You’ve seen it. Sometimes it just comes over me and even I think: Oh dear. Here you go again… you old fool!” He took out a handkerchief. “I’m just going to blow my nose. Allergies. I guess…” He blew his nose with a muffled snort into the cloth and then refolded it and put it back into his pocket.

“So… this card. I don’t want to say it was a cheap card. In case someone is here who sent it. But, I will say it was a budget card. Nothing fancy at all. The front of it was a manger scene with the Joseph and Mary and the baby and a cow and a… maybe a sheep and a star. Mostly blue. Night sky and the glow coming from the baby. You know. Very standard. Very sentimental, I guess. The kind of thing that normally appeals to me. So at first I thought that maybe I just kept the card because I liked it. There was that manger and the straw and Mary and Joseph and that little baby with His hands reaching out. I looked at the picture for a moment, and I thought about Christmas and I thought about that stack of thank you notes I still haven’t written. I think I have until November to send them. Right? Anyway, after looking at the card I dropped it into the recycle bin. But, you know how that goes: after a minute, I had to pick it back up and find out who it was from. Why had I saved it? Maybe it was something important. A special note or something. Sentimental. Maybe.” Again he laughed. Alone. “It was from the Pilgrim Cleaners on Washington. I’ve been taking my suits there for over ten years. So… I don’t know. Maybe it was sentimental.” A few people laughed at that. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders tentatively.

“But, here’s the thing. I’d been thinking about this reading. Preparing for it. The Good Samaritan. And thinking about the –I don’t know—the traditional way of reading it. The way we are used to thinking about it. Augustine. The allegorical reading we all know.” He adjusted his glasses and squinted. Looked down at the opened Gospel on the ambo, then coughed.

“Dear me. Some of you may even be saying to yourself –what’s an allegorical reading. But even if you don’t remember what an allegory is, you know it. Everybody has heard someone preach it. And because it is such a familiar story and such a familiar understanding of the story, we don’t really pay attention anymore. It’s like the power of the parable to challenge us has been tamed. If we can wrap it all up with a bow, like a Christmas fruit cake or something, then there’s nothing in it to challenge us any longer, because –like that Christmas card –it’s become kind of a cliché. Think about it. This parable, how many times have you heard it?”

He paused to let people think for a moment. “Yes. Yes. We know it so well, we are so familiar with it; we don’t really hear it anymore. It’s become safe and settled; like a mathematical equation. This equals this. The Samaritan equals God. The wounded man represents our sinful states. The Levite and the judge equal the religious authorities and the law –or the government. Neither one seems to do very well, I might point out. The donkey becomes the incarnation –the fleshly presence of God in the form of Jesus Christ. The Inn is the Church where sinful man comes to be refreshed and healed with oil and wine –which are the sacraments. You see… It’s all very simple. It’s all very mathematical. Not that I would know anything about math. Right? You should see my check book. Or the parish accounts… No. No. Just joking. Please. Don’t write the Bishop.” 

He laughed. A few polite responses came from the pews.

“But here is what I am trying to say. Here is what I meant to say and then I will sit down and shut up. I took that sentimental card out of the recycling and looked at it, without really thinking about it. It was just your normal, standard baby Jesus and manger with Mary and Joseph there smiling and looking like they just came from the beauty salon. They are gazing down on their new baby with awe and joy. Lots of radiance and glowing and just a hint of a breeze in their freshly washed hair and their perfectly clean robes and scarves. Even the shepherd and the sheep look like they just stepped out of a spa or something. Very Hollywood looking. And I was about to throw it away again when something caught my eye. The naked hand of the baby Jesus reaching out of the manger to His blessed Mother, and for some reason that hand struck me. Even after I put the card back in the trash, I thought about that naked hand and how vulnerable and helpless it was. How helpless and naked and vulnerable all babies are. They need to be cared for –completely. And I thought of Mary and Joseph there, watching over Him. Not the Hallmark card versions or the Hollywood versions, but the real ones. Mary and Joseph. Taking care of Him. Changing His diapers and kissing his boo boos. And thinking about that, thinking about all of that, I started to realize something. I realized something strange that had never occurred to me before; every time we hear this story, you know who we are called to be like: the Samaritan. Right? And yet who did Jesus become? He became the wounded man, naked and helpless and alone in the world. That’s how he came to us. He came to us as that little baby in the manger. He came to us helpless and naked and in need of someone to pick Him up, someone to give Him shelter and to give Him love. Do you see it? Think about that. What does that mean to you personally? What does this parable say to you now? For me, what I learned was that sometimes the gift we bring is our strength and sometimes our gift is our weakness. Sometimes the best gift we have to offer is our weakness, our vulnerability. Our need for help. Because your weakness is a chance for me to step away from my Shredded Wheat and coffee and help you. It’s a chance for me to become the saint God made me to be. So, don’t be afraid to be weak. Don’t be afraid to be vulnerable. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Jesus was weak. Jesus was vulnerable. He even cried out from the cross. The next time you are feeling weak and vulnerable, remember: that may be how God is calling you to become more like Christ. And it could be that God is using your weakness to plant seeds and grow saints in the people around you.

See… that parable isn’t so simple after all, is it. The next time you hear one of these old familiar stories, don’t just nod your head and think: Oh, I know that one. I’ve already heard that one. No. No. No. Ask yourself: what is God trying to say to me, right here, right now? What is God speaking to me? Maybe He’s asking you to be the Samaritan and help someone who is wounded and hurt and needs your care. Or maybe God is asking you to be the vulnerable one who needs help. Maybe He’s asking you to be carry the cross, or maybe God is asking you to be an opportunity for someone else to carry His cross; And maybe God is telling you that to become like Christ, to become Christ for others… all that is being asked is that you become like that man on the road to Jerusalem or like that baby in that manger on that card: weak and vulnerable, in need of help –naked to the world. Reach out your hand in need and see what happens. You know. Even if no one helps you, you don’t know. You won’t know. You can’t know how much you may have helped them. Maybe even the memory of seeing you so vulnerable, so willing to ask for help… That simple memory may haunt them –in a good way. And maybe that’s how God planted His seed in their heart. Memories. Christmas cards. And weakness. I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know. That’s all."