At the heart of the Annunciation is the declaration that God isn’t here just in the extraordinary times. God isn’t here just when we need divine providence. God loves us, and calls us, right here, right now, right where we’re at in our ordinary, everyday lives.
Sermon: “How Can This Be?”
Delivered at ARK Community Church, Dalton MA, December 21, 2014; (Fourth Sunday in Advent).
Luke 1:26-38 (NRSV)
I’ve been considering Mary’s question in this morning’s reading from Luke, where Gabriel tells her that she will soon have a child, a son; that he’ll be a great King, and that he will sit on the throne of his ancestor, David.
Mary responds by asking “How can this be?”
As Christians, this is a question we often ask ourselves, or perhaps others ask of us: How can this be? It’s a question we ask about the birth of Christ, about why we believe, about why we find ourselves in various situations. And, as we read this passage in Luke, we see that a lot is wrapped up in this simple little question of Mary’s: How can a baby be born of a virgin? Why is God doing this? Why does it matter?
I begin by asking myself “what was Mary thinking when she asked this?” What I do know is that the common assumption, that she’s wondering how a virgin can give birth, is not what she is perplexed about.
Sermon presented at Centre Congregational Church, UCC (Brattleboro, VT)
September 28, 2014
Exodus 32:7-14 (NRSV): The Golden Calf
Acts 16:11-15 (NRSV): Paul Establishes the Philippian Church
Philippians 4:1-9 (NRSV): Paul Advises the Philippian Church
One thing I’ve noticed about my son, like most young children, is that when he plays, it’s about the process – or journey, if you will – not the goal. For instance, when he’s building a tower with his blocks and it gets too high, he knocks them down and starts over again.
His play is not about being the biggest, nor the best, nor the tallest, nor any other human measure of success. It’s about playing – about stacking blocks. That’s where his fun is, that’s what makes it meaningful and valuable to him. What’s more, his parents’ judgment of the value of his work is not important. …Well, at least not yet! – But our participation in his play is important.
A couple of years ago we had a dinner for some of our friends and their toddlers at our home. Once everyone arrived, we all went into the room where the kids were playing, and … guess what … … … The Dads saw the kids playing with AJ’s big cardboard blocks!
Well, as good fathers, we had to participate, didn’t we?
Sermon: “Jesus Wept”
Presented at ARK Community Church in Dalton, MA
April 6, 2014 (Fifth Sunday of Lent)
This morning’s reading from Ezekiel 37, and our Gospel reading from John 11, are parallel stories. They both deal with the same issues, are presented in similar ways, and both demonstrate how utterly powerless we are in the face of death and darkness: readings we do well to consider on this, the last Sunday in Lent before Palm Sunday.
Let us pray…
Lord God, we ask that your Holy Spirit fill each and every one of us here this morning. Open the scriptures before us, and enable me to clearly communicate what you intend for us to receive here today. Make your gospel come alive within each and every one of us, driving all darkness from our hearts.
We rejoice in this opportunity to encounter new revelations and a deeper understanding of your unconditional, living, infinite love; and we ask that we be amazed and transformed by that love. Help us to embody your gospel, and to live it, in all that we do, think, speak, and are; both individually and jointly, as members of this congregation which stands before you as a portion of the Body of Believers who share your Gospel with their neighbors in this community.
In Jesus Name, Amen.
Both of our readings this morning deal with dark times, placing us within the narrative of those who have lost all hope, those who have nothing whatsoever left, and see nothing in their future.
We all have such valleys of darkness in our lives, times when the walls close in, times when the way forward is not just unclear, but entirely nonexistent. Times when we cannot see beyond that dark horizon that we cannot penetrate; times when all hope dies and death itself seems all too near at hand, or perhaps not near enough.