Dec 24 ~ Christmas Eve/ Do Not be Afraid... I Bring You Good News of Great Joy

Luke 2: 1-7

Luke 2: 8-14

Luke 2: 15-20

John 1: 1-14

Sermon by Pastor Joel

Tonight, we gather in a world that is both beautiful and bruised.

Some of us arrive tonight bursting with joy. With hearts filled with excited children – and returning university students, and grandchildren to create a musical Christmas soundtrack, the comfort of tradition, the nostalgia of familiar carols, the warm presence of family. Some of us arrive tired, stretched thin, carrying grief that does not take a holiday, carrying worry that hums beneath the music. And many of us arrive with both at once—because that is what it means to be human.

And so, it matters—deeply—that the Christmas story begins the way it does. Not with perfect people in a perfect world, but with ordinary people under pressure.

Mary and Joseph are pushed onto the road not because it is wise or humane, but because the government of the day ordered them to do so. They were bound by a faraway decision that rippled into real homes and ordered them to uproot their lives unexpectedly and at the worst time. Just as the decisions of faraway tyrants and politicians have changed the course of our country and our world so much this year.

And, like many people forced to leave their homes and their countries around that same world each day, Mary and Joseph arrive in Bethlehem only to learn that there is no room. No room in the inn.

And yet—this is the miracle we celebrate tonight—God does not wait for the world to make room. God comes anyway. Not as an invading tyrant. Not with vengeful tariffs. Not ruling from a shining throne.

God comes as a baby—small enough to hold, fragile enough to need care, dependent on human kindness to survive. Christmas is not God commanding us from heaven, “Do better.” Christmas is God whispering into our lives, “I am with you.” And what’s more, “I trust you.”

And if God comes to us this way—vulnerable, tender, trusting—then the message is unmistakable: vulnerability is not shameful, tenderness is not weakness, trust is not a failure of courage. In a world that often seems to reward power and might, the Incarnation is God’s bold decision to be gently present with us. That baby in the manger is God saying, “I am here.”

And when the angels appear, they do not appear to the powerful. They do not appear to the people who can afford the VIP seats. They appear to shepherds who smell like sheep. Who work the night shift. Who live on the margins.

And that is where the good news travels first. The angel says, “I bring you good news of great joy for all the people.” Not for winners only. Not for those with tidy lives. But for all people. For everyone.

Joy is often a word that seems to fail us. It feels as if it can be misused—like a bandage slapped over a deep wound. “Cheer up.” “Don’t feel sad.” “Be grateful.” But divine joy is not denial. It does not pretend the shadows are not real. Divine joy translates into stubborn hope.

Hope is what happens when love shows up right in the middle of things as they are—not as we wish they were. Hope is what happens when God refuses to abandon the world, refuses to leave us. Hope is what happens when the innkeeper creatively finds room for Mary and Joseph, when the shepherds bravely answer the call, when we, ourselves, are that innkeeper and those shepherds.

“The glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.” Who wouldn’t be? Hope offered in the night of our lives can be terrifying. And once again, the angel’s response is not, “Get your act together!” The angel says simply: “Do not be afraid.”

This is the gift God offers at Christmas. To Mary and Joseph, to the Shepherds and to us. It is God saying, “I know the world you live in. I know what you carry. I know what you have survived. I am here.”

Christmas Eve is for the anxious, the grieving, the exhausted, the people who are doing their best and still feel as if it is not enough. Christmas is freely given. We don’t fix ourselves to become acceptable.

Whatever you carry—joy or grief, faith or questions—bring it to the manger. There is room there, and here, among people who are also trying to do their best. For what the gospel teaches us again and again is that many people doing their best is all that is needed to change the world. In the manger, we are freed to try to do the good that heals the world.

Which is why Christmas is not only comforting. It is revolutionary. Because when God is born among the poor, the displaced, the overlooked, God is making a claim about where holiness lives and who matters. God is saying that nobody is beyond concern, no one’s need is invisible. Whatever you carry—joy or grief, faith or questions - bring it to the manger. There is room.

And if that is true, Christmas cannot stay inside these walls. It spills out. It becomes how we treat our neighbors. How we speak to and about people different from us. How we vote, how we give, how we welcome, how we work to change systems that still leave “no room.”

Remember, the angels do not say, “Good luck down there.”

They sing, “Peace on earth.” And they bring to us both promise and challenge.

In a few moments, we will light a single flame, and it will pass from person to person until the whole sanctuary glows. Such a small thing—a shared flame. And yet it is the whole Gospel in miniature: one light given, another received, neither diminished, growing into a collective fire.

This is Christmas, with all its tenderness, hope and courage: individual flames held by people doing their best, sparked by the gospel, shared yet never diminished, growing beyond our imagination.

May we all carry that flame with us, home tonight, and always.

Merry Christmas. Amen

Dec 21 ~ On the Threshold of Fear, Faith is Freedom / 4th Sunday of Advent

Isaiah 7:10-16

Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19

Romans 1:1-7

Matthew 1:18-25

Sermon by Pastor Joel

Recently we have been hearing the kind of headline that makes your stomach drop. Reports out of Sydney have described a deadly attack at a public Chanukah celebration at Bondi Beach—an evening that began with families gathering for light and song but ended in terror. And then, almost as moving as the tragedy itself, were the responses closer to home: rabbis and communities in Canada saying, in effect, we will keep gathering; we will keep lighting candles; we will not give in to fear—choosing light over darkness, even while grieving. 

We all know this kind of fear. Maybe not from that exact event, and maybe not from violence at our own doorstep, but we know the fear of being confronted by the unknown—of realizing how quickly “normal” can fracture. To be human is to learn to live with uncertainty. 

No one could know this kind of fear better than the woman behind today’s gospel. Mary’s situation could not be worse. In her world, she lives under layers of vulnerability and powerlessness. And now she is pregnant. And not only pregnant, but pregnant in a way that will invite suspicion, shame, and danger.

On top of all of this, she is confronted with news that will change everything. Not only does she have to tell Joseph that she is pregnant—knowing very well that he knows he is not the father—but she also has to speak words that sound impossible: that she was “found with child from the Holy Spirit.” Not an easy thing to say. Not an easy thing to hear. And it will no doubt change the direction of her life.

Joseph’s response is crucial. He could have reacted severely to Mary’s apparent unfaithfulness -- a reaction that could have led to her ruin. According to the law and the customs of the time, Joseph had the right to divorce her, and Mary could have faced public punishment and even death.

So here they are: two people caught in a moment of uncertainty. And anxiety. One that requires a time-sensitive response. Joseph likely ready to dismiss Mary quietly, Mary trapped by circumstances she cannot control. Both worried about the shame of public disgrace. Both struck by anxiety over a radical change in their lives. Both facing the uncertainty of standing on the threshold of a new life.

And then something amazing happens. God breaks into the situation and says: “Do not be afraid.” It is revealed to Joseph -- and even more profoundly in Luke’s telling, to Mary -- that God is with them.

This is the hinge point of our gospel lesson today. It is not about the mechanics of how it happened, or the arguments that try to pin down the mystery. The focal point is faith—and what faith does to a life on the edge of fear. Into this situation comes good news: that God has broken into our world, and the message is no longer one of fear, but of rejoicing.

In a sermon Martin Luther wrote on this text, he said that the three wonders of Christmas are that God became human, a virgin gave birth, and Mary believed—and that the greatest of these is that Mary believed. Mary and Joseph stood on the threshold of fear and change, and they were freed by faith.

People throughout the story of our faith -- from Abraham in Genesis to the shepherds in Luke, to John in Revelation -- were confronted by fear. And to each of them God’s response was the same: do not be afraid. As soon as they sensed that God accepted them and loved them, their fear subsided. God had given them freedom.

And that story isn’t over. It continues in each one of us. God seeks to give us the same freedom. We, too, stand on the threshold of new things—in our lives and in our world. We want to believe that our story—the story of a creator God, a loving and forgiving and redeeming God, a sanctifying and nurturing God—can still speak through each one of us. Even -- and especially -- in times of uncertainty.

When we sing in our sending hymn for today, “O come, O Wisdom from on high, embracing all things far and nigh: in strength and beauty come and stay; teach us your will and guide our way,” we are announcing our belief that God’s story in Jesus still has meaning and relevance and purpose.

And that is why those words from the news this past week landed so heavily: people who had every reason to retreat, to hide, to cancel, to go silent -- choosing instead to gather, to light candles, to sing, to say: we will not be ruled by terror; we will choose light. 

Because here is the truth: standing on the threshold of fear, we always have choices. We can meet fear with fear—tighten our fists, harden our hearts, close our doors, narrow our compassion. Or we can meet fear with faith—not naive faith that pretends nothing hurts, but courageous faith that refuses to let the worst moment define the next moment.

That kind of response does not come from binge-watching crime shows or doom-scrolling headlines. It comes from people like Mary and Joseph. It comes from the meaningful and relevant story of our faith—this persistent, stubborn message that, when we are most afraid, God speaks the words we most need: “Do not be afraid.”

We are gathered here today to tell and to hear a story—the story of God breaking into human history and into human lives. By coming together, we are saying that this story gives meaning to our lives and has purpose for our present and our future. We are saying that this story needs to be shared with others. We tell it in song, in laughter, in tears, in words and in actions.

For us today, it is told in the promise wrapped inside this gospel: Emmanuel—God with us. God with us in fear. God with us in uncertainty. God with us in shame and danger and disruption. God with us when the world shakes. God with us when we are tempted to retreat. God with us—calling us not to be afraid of the barriers and impediments to participating in the reign of God. God with us—calling us to do miracles of courage and love.

Is not our life of faith itself a miracle—a sign of what is yet to come? As we live in God’s grace, in openness to God’s forgiveness and love, we become a sign for others. Is not our living—no matter how small it may seem—part of the network of communication God is spreading across the face of the earth? That we should live by grace. That we should show love. That we should come with the words “fear not” to lives closed in on themselves, barricaded by fear and anxiety, trapped by anger and doubt.

In the Bible, the message “Fear not” is heard over 600 times—more than enough for each day of the year. Enough for each day we wake up to headlines that unsettle us. Enough for each day we stand on the threshold of change.

Do not be afraid. Rejoice in the gift God gives us this Advent: not the promise that nothing will ever go wrong, but the deeper promise that God will not leave us alone when it does. 

Amen

Dec 14 ~ We Hear the Gospel More Clearly When We Hear Different People Deliver its Message / 3Rd Sunday of Advent

Due to the Youth Christmas Pageant, there is only the printed version of Pastor Joel's sermon this week.

Isaiah 35:1-10

Psalm 146:5-10

James 5:7-10

Matthew 11:2-11

Sermon by Pastor Joel

Think back to a moment this week, when you saw someone and instantly decided you knew their story. Maybe it was the brusque young woman in line in the grocery story, or the teenager with purple hair behind the cash at the gas station, or the dirty-looking guy at the Dollar Store. Maybe you were the one whose story was being written by some stranger and you didn’t even know it. Those of us who are white, sitting here in the pews, may never really experience this. But there is a reason why Black Canadian mothers warn their kids to be extra careful when shopping or driving; they worry about the story being written before anyone even asks their son or daughter a question.

Our brains can’t help it: we are guilty of unconscious bias, we remember the details we heard more recently, we are influenced by falsehoods presented as facts. Our brains naturally want to categorize. Don’t we learn that as young children? To sort the red blocks from the blue? The circles from the squares? The very way we learn is by dividing items up by difference. Is there any wonder that we also do it with people?

The danger of the stereotype is our gospel lesson this morning, presented to us by the questions that Jesus poses to the crowd about John the Baptist. John is in prison, and he has heard about Jesus; he sends a message to find out if it is true. Jesus sent back word to let him know of the miracles and healing he is performing, that what John predicted is coming true. “And blessed is anyone who takes no offence at me,” Jesus concludes in his message to John.

But then Jesus turns his attention to the crowd, asking them specifically about John himself: What did you go out to see in the wilderness?  A reed that sways in the wind? Did you think that John was someone who would abandon his belief, or reject his own values when his life was in danger?  We can imagine the crowd shaking their heads to say “no”, because Jesus asks another question: Then what did you go out to see? Someone in fancy robes who lives in a kingdom?  In fact, Jesus says, the crowd met a prophet. Whether they thought John fit the image of a prophet or not, whether he was what they expected to find, Jesus is saying that John wasn’t only A prophet; he was THE prophet.

So much of Advent and Christmas is about challenging our stereotypes. In this case, the one who paved the path for Jesus was not an educated man, or even a fisherman. He was a wild man from the wilderness. He was the last person you would expect to have a line to God, or to be the opening act for Jesus. What is the lesson there for us? Surely, we, too, need to question all the times we make assumptions about people. When we assess their character by who they are, or what they do, or what they wear. Had we done that in the crowd listening to John, we would have been so busy scoffing at his smelly clothes and eccentric ways we would have missed what he had to say.

What’s more, if John is lifted first above everyone, then he is a role model for us. We don’t have to be like him in his style of shouting, angry oratory – we can choose to be soft-spoken. Those are qualities only on the surface of John: the part to emulate is his character. And most specifically what was mentioned: he was not someone who bent to the will of others in a way that dismantled his own faith.

It seems as if every few months I find one post or another by a church leader, deciding that what John really meant – in his words of last week – was that some people are good enough for God and some people aren’t. But how are we supposed to know who is who – and why does the Advent and Christmas story basically upend every stereotype? Maybe that’s the point: we can’t know, and we shouldn’t try. And really, does the gospel suggest that God is so lacking in nuance? 

The “probably good enough” and the “not good enough,”  “the “accepted” and the “rejected,” are the conclusions we arrive at when we get in the gospel’s way by presuming to be God. For example, I am your pastor; I try to lead you, just as I am so often led by many of you.  That is our role for one another. When someone decides God also sorts people, it encourages us to the do same. Why shouldn’t we get started at what will happen in heaven anyway? What’s more, it often puts us in some kind of competition for God’s divine attention, as if there were a finite number of spots in heaven. In that case, I had better raise issues about my neighbor’s flaws so that I look better. Why would I help my neighbor, if it cost me a spot? For there to be so-called “worthy” people, there must be those who are “unworthy.” And the only way we can decide that is a shortcut kind of way with stereotypes. Otherwise, we would have to truly get to know someone, and we might find out they aren’t who we thought. We have been raised in a society that teaches us that this is how progress happens: by one person stepping over another, and so on. But is that how society really works? Or has it just created a world where we are so busy stepping up and trying not to get stepped on, that we’ve become much less likely to reach out our hands to help one another? 

We should heed the caution in our second lesson: “Beloved, do not grumble against one another, so that you may not be judged. See, the judge is at the door!” The judge is God. And we cannot presume to know what God sees in someone else.

Think of what our stereotyping does each day, even aside from the great tragedies of history. I think I have told you the story about the summer between university years when I worked as a plumber. If so, indulge me again. After work, dirty and in construction boots – probably doing my best version of John the Baptist’s style – I went to cash a cheque. I was turned down because I didn’t have enough money in my account and was told I’d have to wait five days. I went home, got dressed in my suit, and went back to the bank. (I wasn’t going to make it 5 days without money) And guess what? They did it, no questions asked. It was the exact same cheque. I was the same person. But they saw me with different eyes.

I learned a huge lesson that day, which is probably why I remember it so clearly, and love to keep sharing it. I learned that when I present myself in a different way, people decide my story before I have a chance to share it with them. Sometime the joke’s on them – like when I used to accompany Erin to prenatal appointments with my collar on, to raised eyebrows. Sometimes it makes you angry for the sake of others –as it did when I was judged at the bank. What of the person who can’t go home and put on fancier clothes? Sometimes it is dangerous – as marginalized people in Canada have too often learned.  

We are in a time in North America when we need to begin asking ourselves, and one another, to think about the stereotypes we hold – sometimes without even knowing it. And we need to resist any law that treats people like red or blue blocks to be so easily sorted.

The next time we go looking for a prophet in soft robes, Jesus might suggest we recall John the Baptist. We can hear the truth of the gospel more clearly only when we are more open to hearing different people deliver its message. The message is coming:  Advent is the time for us to think deeply and look broadly to receive it. 

Amen