St. John's Episcopal Church New London, WI

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Epiphany 3
Jonah 3:1-5, 10
1 Corinthians 7:29-31 Mark 1:14-20

Let us pray: O God, just as Jesus came to a waiting people and pronounced the Kingdom of God near at hand, draw near to us; speak to us; let your reign on earth surround our hearts and minds, that we might be faithful to follow you. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.

We all remember the story about Jonah being swallowed by a whale, but what we might have forgotten is why. This is the story: God asks Jonah to go to Nineveh, a corrupt city, and tell them that if they repent, God will not destroy them. This annoys Jonah, who thinks that the Ninevites deserve whatever they get. So he pouts, and frets, and finally runs away. He takes a ship as far away as he can possibly go, to the ends of the known world. But there is a storm, and in desperation the sailors toss Jonah -- who had told them he was fleeing from God -- into the sea, and Jonah is swallowed by a great fish. Jonah prays to the Lord for three days, and at the end of that time the Lord tells the fish to deposit Jonah on dry land.

After all this, God again asks Jonah to go to Nineveh, and he finally does so, reluctantly at best. The king and the people hear Jonah’s message, and they fast and repent. God saw this, and the scripture tells us he changed his mind and did not destroy them. While God is pleased, Jonah is very displeased that God relented, and God rebukes him for his lack of charity.

In contrast, we have the gospel from Mark, the story of the call of Simon and Andrew and James and John. According to Mark, the men “immediately” left their fishing nets and boats to follow Jesus. And then there is Paul telling the Corinthians that time is growing short, that they should live with the knowledge that “the present form of this world is passing away.” We sometimes interpret Paul as being against “the world,” against marriage and emotions and family ties, but it is really more his sense of urgency that comes through his letters. It’s not that he’s against these things so much as it is this urgency that informs his understanding of discipleship.

This same urgency colors the gospel accounts of Jesus. Mark’s tempo or pace is so much more rapid and less literary, if you will, than the other gospels. He is in a hurry to tell his story, and the spoken tradition of Mark’s gospel comes through clearly. There is also that same sense of urgency, of no time to waste -- the early church really believed that the end of the world was near. So it would have been unthinkable to Mark that the disciples would have done anything else but respond to Jesus immediately.

Being human, it is likely that the apostles really didn’t drop everything that minute to follow Jesus. They probably had to make arrangements for their workers, check in at home, and all the usual things that we have to do before going on a trip. But Mark is telling a story and trying to make a point: this wasn’t just any journey, this was important.

How often do we drop everything and follow when God calls? We tend, rather, to be more like Jonah than James and Andrew in our response to God. We are slow and reluctant, we drag our feet, we are reluctant, and we are annoyed when God doesn’t do what we think God should do. We have lots of excuses about why we can’t do it that way, or why we can’t do it now. Often God’s plans for us, God’s interventions in our lives, have very little to do with our own plans, and they are usually inconvenient. It’s not what we had planned, the way we thought things would work out, or what we thought we would do with our lives. Sometimes, like Jonah, we just simply don’t want to do it.

The other interesting thing about Jonah’s story, aside from his reluctance, is how annoyed he was that God was willing to give the people of Nineveh a second chance (or third or fourth). Jonah just wanted God to smite them. He didn’t think they deserved a second chance, didn’t deserve saving. How often do we feel the same way? How often do we think that people with whom we disagree or people who are different from us don’t deserve God’s mercy, don’t deserve saving? Republicans or Democrats, liberals, or conservatives, female or male, straight or gay, environmentalists or developers, black or white, young or old, Christian or non-Christian -- the lists we make are endless in terms of differences, real or perceived, and where we draw the line in the sand. Usually we feel it is only people like us who will be saved, and who are deserving of it.

We may find Jonah amusing, ridiculous, or appalling as he mutters and whines against God’s offer of redemption to the Ninevites, and as he tries to run away from God. But if we let the story touch us, if we plumb the depths of our own hearts, we will find Jonah there within us -- that part of us that judges and condemns, that desires revenge rather than justice, vengeance instead of mercy.

Jonah spends three days inside the whale, in the darkness, so he will have time to think, so he will learn a lesson. We, too, spend much time in darkness. The vengeance that we desire, the hurt feelings and grudges and rages that we carry for years weigh us down and eat at us. We are the ones who suffer the most in these situations. It doesn’t hurt the other person--the Ninevites were not hurt by Jonah’s reluctance, only Jonah was -- but it damages us spiritually, relationally, emotionally, and physically. We are the ones spending time in darkness, we are the ones imprisoned.

Like Jonah, we sit outside the city, angry and hurting, separating ourselves from God and others. But there is a way out. We can choose to let go of our hurts and move on. As in the story of Jonah, God is ready to offer us love and mercy, too. It is that love and mercy that heals us and allows us to move out of the darkness. It doesn’t change the fact that we were hurt, it doesn’t mean that we weren’t right to be angry, but it moves us beyond that into a different place where we can go on.

Maybe that’s what those first followers saw in Jesus: a way to move beyond the things that were keeping them stuck and in the dark. Maybe they could sense his acceptance, his love, and his mercy toward them. In a society where they lived under Roman rule, where they were the downtrodden ones, perhaps they sensed the freedom he offered them to live in a different way, more wholly and more alive.

Is it possible that our judgment and condemnation of others is really a commentary on how deserving we feel ourselves? If we do not believe that we are deserving of God’s love and mercy, it is easier to deny others as well. If we feel stuck in the dark, downtrodden, not free, not whole, not really alive, we are in desperate need of what God offers us through Jesus Christ. Opening ourselves to that possibility is the only way we will be healed.

How much healing could we bring to ourselves and our broken world if we could accept God’s love and mercy for ourselves and for everyone else, as we have seen it lived out and made real in Jesus? How loving and generous could we be with others if we could learn to be loving and generous to ourselves? In a world torn by division and strife, these could be the most important questions we ask ourselves at the beginning of this new year.

Let us pray: Lord, you call us not only to follow you; you also call us to go out into the world and to feed your sheep, and be fishers of people. Strengthen us in our calling as your disciples through your Son Christ Jesus, our Lord and our Savior. Amen.

Epiphany 1: Baptism of Our Lord
Genesis 1:1-5
Acts 19:1-7
Mark 1:4-11

Let us pray: Most gracious God, as the heavens were opened at Jesus’ baptism, so open to us the gates of your mercy. As the Spirit descended upon him, keep your Holy Spirit upon us also. As Jesus heard your voice above the waters, may we listen and keep your word so our thoughts and actions are pleasing to you and a blessing to others and to ourselves. We ask it in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Today, we remember the baptism of Jesus by his cousin John in the River Jordan. Now, John’s the guy we’ve been hearing a lot about lately (since the beginning of Advent), and after today, he drops into the background. You see, we no longer need that voice crying in the wilderness, “Prepare the way of the Lord.” For the Lord is here, born on earth to save us. And we no longer have any confusion about who is the Messiah, for the one more powerful than John has come. John’s role as prophet, foretelling the great story of salvation as known in the person of Jesus Christ: that role is fulfilled with Jesus’ baptism today. John is sometimes seen as the last of the old order: the last prophet in the line of Isaiah and Jeremiah, the last to baptize with water only and not also the Holy Spirit, and the last to demand repentance before the coming of the kingdom of God.

For Jesus proclaims over and over again that the kingdom of God has drawn near us; it is here, and now. No longer coming, or far off, or even just the other side of a thin divide—but here, very near us. Among the very first documented acts of his earthly ministry, the twelve-year-old Jesus picks up a scroll and reads from an earlier prophecy of Isaiah: that the spirit of the Lord has anointed him, and that he has been sent to announce good news to the poor—and that this prophecy has been fulfilled. “Today, in your very hearing this text has come true,” he says.

So, this baptism of Jesus: it seems to have achieved a radical transformation in him. No longer just the carpenter’s son, no longer a refugee in Egypt, no longer just another human being to walk the face of the earth. He moves on from here to teach in synagogues and have people sing his praises. He will heal the sick, and make the dead live again. He will preach and perform miracles. He will amaze people with his teaching, and baffle us even today by submitting to a shameful death on a cross. And he will appear again when he ascends into heaven, prophesying of his return in glory to judge the earth—a second coming we still anticipate, two millennia later. One day people know him as that clever boy, Joseph’s son. And the next he’s revealed as the Christ, the Messiah, the chosen one—God’s son, the beloved, with whom God is well pleased. In his baptism, Jesus seems to have become an entirely different person.

So, too, with our baptism: None of us is Christ, but each and every one of us is the beloved, with whom God is well pleased. And each and every one of us was forever changed and transformed in our baptism. And each and every one of us continues to be changed and transformed—in ways big and small—throughout our earthly ministry. Now filled with the Holy Spirit, we—like Jesus—are commissioned and sent forth to proclaim the good news of God’s favor, to proclaim release for prisoners and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the broken victims go free, to proclaim that the time of God’s favor is here.

That’s our job: to live baptismally. We are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever. Baptism is an amazing gift. By the waters of baptism, we are lead from death to life, from the bondage of sin into everlasting life. In it, we are buried with Christ in his death. By it, we share in his resurrection. Through it, we are reborn by the Holy Spirit. And baptism is also an awesome responsibility. We are also no longer simply to live as ordinary people in the world: We are to boldly confess Jesus as Lord and Savior; to strive for justice and peace among all people; and to seek and serve Christ in everyone we meet.

Those of us who profess and call ourselves Christians are called to live a different kind of life, a life set apart from the world around us and yet somehow also very much in its midst. By baptism, the prophecy of Isaiah is fulfilled—in Jesus, and in each one of us. God looks at us—the beloved, with whom God is well pleased—and says, “Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of God has risen upon you.” Amen.

Christmas 1

Isaiah 61:10-62:3
Galatians 3:23-25, 4:4-7
John 1:1-18

Let us pray: Almighty God, you have made yourself known in your Son, Jesus. In his birth you have restored the dignity of human nature. In your love, and by the power of the Holy Spirit, let us share in his divine life – just as he shared our humanity. As we hear and reflect on your word this day, help us to respond with believing hearts and to put our faith into practice. We ask in his name. Amen.

Have you ever noticed that when you get together with your family and start telling stories about when you were growing up, or what happened years ago, the same events sound very different as different people tell the story? Depending on who’s describing it, the guy who used to live across the street was a scrooge or a saint. Moving from one town to another was either a disaster, a wonderful escape, or a thing indifferent, hardly noticed. Same event, different folks in the family, different point of view, radically different ways of telling the same story.
Consider the wonderful poetry of those first 18 verses of John’s Gospel we just heard. This is the Christmas story, the third time the Bible tells it. It is the same story we may have heard on Christmas Eve—the story of the manger and the shepherds and the angels—and it’s the same story Matthew tells in his gospel—with Joseph’s dreams, the wise men and the flight to Egypt. But the point of view is different, and John’s Gospel sounds strange to ears more accustomed to crowded inns and angel choirs. That’s because different folks in the family are telling the same story.

You see, Luke, who wrote the familiar story of Christmas Eve, was a bit of an historian. He was very concerned with getting the dates and rulers right, and with locating everything in time and space. Also, he may have been a gentile convert, and he was very concerned about the role of people who, like him, were considered outsiders. So, Luke is more concerned with shepherds—who were social outcasts—than about kings. And Luke focuses on the perspective of Mary—a radical move since women were even lower on the social ladder than shepherds.

Matthew is more traditional. He was certainly a Jew and may have been a scribe. He was very concerned with making it clear that Jesus fulfilled all of the Old Testament prophecies as Messiah, King of Jews. So, shepherds didn’t interest him as much as the royal wise men, and he paid a lot of attention to the flight to Egypt because of the parallel between the Exodus led by Moses and Jesus’ own return from Egypt to Israel. Also, the more traditional Matthew tells the story of Jesus’ birth from Joseph’s point of view.

Then there was John. John may well have read Matthew and Luke and, if so, he assumes that we have, too. But John is a theologian and a mystic. So, he isn’t concerned with historical details. Instead, he writes of the meaning of Jesus’ birth, and he writes from his theology, and from the holy imagination of his prayers. But he is still telling the same story—all three are talking about the same birth—all three are saying the same thing.

John begins the story earlier—he reminds us that Christmas really begins where Genesis begins—in the beginning, with God in creation. So, using language evocative of the first verses of Genesis, John begins by talking about the beginning, and about the Word of God. “The Word” here is God in action, God creating, God revealing himself. The Word was with God, and the Word was God. Then he tells the Christmas story—in nine words (in the Greek and English). “And the Word became flesh and lived among us.” He who was with God in creation, the one who is God revealing himself to humanity—this one became a person, became flesh—as completely human as you and I. Not God with a people-suit disguise on; not a really good person who God rewarded and made special; not a super angel God created early and saved up for Bethlehem.

But a person, who was the Word—who was God’s own self. (A chip off the old block.) Soaring words for the most down-to-earth thing that ever happened. But it’s still the Christmas story, still the story Matthew and Luke tell—the story of the birth of Jesus.

In addition to telling the same story, Matthew, Luke, and John also share one special way of telling it—there is one image, one symbol, and only one, that they all use to talk about that birth in Bethlehem. (Can you think of what it is?)

They all talk about light—the light of the star, the light that shone around the shepherds, the true light that enlightens everyone. They all continue Isaiah’s vision of light shining on those who live in darkness. Where Christ is, people who understand talk about light. They have to—there is no better image of what is going on. The light shines in the darkness—John proclaims. And somehow, we understand this and we understand that this truth cannot be better expressed in any other words.

In large part, we understand this because we know about darkness—we know what it is like to live in and with darkness. Remember what it’s like to try to walk through an unfamiliar place when it’s really dark—or to wake up confused in the middle of the night in someone else’s house, trying to get somewhere? We know what it’s like when we don’t know where things are, and we don’t know what we have just bumped into, or whether we’re going to get where we want to go, or if the next step will be OK or if we will break something and make a mess. We know how easy it is to go in circles in the dark and to get turned around and to stub a toe and get angry and hit whatever is handy.

And we know what it is like to live like that in broad daylight.

What John and Luke and Matthew all say about Christmas is that a light begins to shine—suddenly, quietly, but with absolute certainty. And by that light, we can begin to see. By that light, we can begin to see who we are and who we are created to be. For it is in the person of Jesus that what it means to be fully a human being is finally made clear. In him, we see that our lives are made whole as we surrender them in love and service; in him, we see that really being alive means risking everything for—and because of—the love of God and the Kingdom of God. In him we see that hope need never be abandoned—never—and that we contain possibilities beyond our imagining.

Also, by that light that has come into the world, we begin to see God clearly for the first time. “No one has ever seen God,” John reminds us. But God is made known to us in Jesus. So, everything we thought about God, everything we had figured out, everything that we were sure we knew about God—all of this is put to the test in Jesus. Who God is, in relationship to us, is fully revealed in Jesus. Not in one saying or one parable or one miracle—but in all of him: in his life, ministry, death, and resurrection. Through all of these together, we finally have the light to see God.

The light of Christ, the Word made flesh, comes among us at Christmas—and we celebrate its coming into the world. God had revealed himself and his love to us in Christ. That first Christmas, the stable stank but the light shone—and it continues to shine. It continues to allow us to see—and to show a world living in darkness what we have seen. For by that light we have been given power to become children of God—and to take our places with the light. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

We know there is much darkness in our world but we need to remember the good news. There is light in the darkness and the darkness shall not overcome it.

Let us pray: Our Father and our God penetrate our hearts with your eternal gladness and light. Let us face suffering, darkness, and discouragement with hope and cheerfulness, knowing they are pathways to your glory. Fill us with peace and rejoicing in your many blessings. Give us deep abiding faith and hope because of Christ, in whom we pray. Amen.

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In The Flesh

12/25/2020

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Christmas Day
Isaiah 62:6-12
Titus 3:4-7
Luke 2:1-20

Let us pray: Almighty God, we praise you for entering into the world you have made so you can draw us near to you. We give thanks that, you have come in great humility as the baby Jesus in the manger, you also have made him to be the Messiah, the Christ, for the salvation of the world. Thank you for your love and grace in the birth of Christ. Amen.

Luke’s nativity story is familiar to most of us, whether we know it or not. That famous account of Jesus’ birth that we hear, year-in and year-out, begins with those ever-so recognizable lines, “In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered…” You know where this one’s going right from the very beginning.
Christians don’t memorize much scripture anymore. Smartphone in hand, any one of us can command verse after verse with a few swipes of our thumb. Come to think of it, nobody memorizes much of anything at all anymore. Yet even today, the children in the Christmas pageant commit themselves to those words that seem to rain down from heaven: “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.”
We also heard a very short reading from the letter to Titus which we usually pay little attention to:
“When the goodness and loving-kindness of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of any works of righteousness that we had done, but according to his mercy, through the water of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit. This Spirit he poured out on us richly through Jesus Christ our Savior, so that, having been justified by his grace, we might become heirs according to the hope of eternal life.”
Even though these words from Titus might not be quite as memorable as some others, they are surely just as applicable as we gather not only to observe the nativity but to celebrate the Incarnation.
You see, Christmas is just as much about giving birth to a firstborn son and wrapping him in bands of cloth and laying him in a manger as it is about the grace of God appearing, bringing salvation to all. In fact, they are two sides of the same coin, one in the very same.

At Christmas, God’s grace appears like never before: in the flesh. By coming in the flesh, God is making sure we understand how very close to us the holy presence really is. God not only wants us to see that presence, God invites us to feel it—in the flesh! And so that is precisely where grace appears.
Through the miracle of the Incarnation, God did away with the silly notion that we are mere drones slogging our way toward some heavenly home, slowly but surely trudging through the earthly muck and mire. By becoming flesh in this world, God sanctifies our flesh, making it possible for us to be agents of God’s grace – right here on earth. In other words, eternal life starts now. You don’t have to wait to get to heaven to live in God’s kingdom.
Ever since God appeared in a flesh like ours, and lived a life like ours, humanity and divinity have been inextricably linked. I know it’s hard to believe. The paradox of this great mystery is certainly worth considering, but on this holy day, we do not worship in order to ponder exactly how the Incarnation is possible. We come to worship to renew our commitment to living in the world as if it is true.
“A child has been born for us, a son given to us.”
“The grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all.”
“This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.”
None of this means that the world is perfect. If you weren’t already convinced, 2020 should have taken care of that. If ever any year was filled with earthly muck and mire, it was this one. So much so, in fact, that not all Christians—not even some of the most privileged Episcopalians—will be able to worship together today, to pass the peace, to break the bread. A year ago, we could never have imagined the number of lives that would be lost or hearts that would be broken.
Jesus doesn’t guarantee that the world will be perfect, but he does supply the grace that we need in order to live like we ought to live. The author of the letter to Titus reminds us that it is this grace that teaches us how to live a life that is self-controlled, upright, and godly. Will this be a faultless life? No. A flawless life? No. A totally unspoiled life? Absolutely not! But it will be a life in which we can respond following the example of the one who appeared to us in flesh.
Because God became flesh and dwelt among us, each and every one of us, our bodies, our lives, our selves, are conformed to God during the good times and the bad. In the manger baby, God sanctifies all that we experience, even our suffering.
Perhaps at this point, it’s best to get specific.
The life that God’s grace makes possible for us is not a life in which we go around blaming gay people for hurricanes or rioters for wildfires. It is not a world in which COVID-19 can simply be chalked up to God’s wrath upon all those people who are different from us. The life that God’s grace makes possible for us is a life in which we, as Christians, operate from a place of compassion and love. It is a life in which we recognize the turmoil and the tragedy, the trauma, and the deep grief of the world and simply ask how we can help.
“What do you need? Where can I meet you? Stay right there. I’m on the way!” The world cries out for a response rooted in the grace of God’s appearing. Not, “What did you do to deserve this?” More like, “Given these circumstances, where do we go from here? How do we walk forward together?”
That is grace in the flesh, dear friends. That is what the world needs. That is what God offers us in Jesus: the grace of gifts given, not gifts earned; grace that comes to us in our own image and inspires us to live the Christmas life. Amen.

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Let It Be!

12/20/2020

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Advent 4
2 Samuel 7:1-11,16
Romans 16:25-27
Luke 1:26-38
Let us pray: Come, Lord Jesus. Fill our minds with your word, fill our hearts with your love, and fill our lives with your light. Come, Lord Jesus, we pray. Amen.

"Mary said, 'I am the servant of the Lord. Let it be done to me as you say.'"
When Gabriel announced to Mary that she would give birth to a son she was troubled, and perplexed. She said, “How can this be?” This was not in her plans for her future with her betrothed husband Joseph. But Gabriel told her that the Holy Spirit would come upon her and she would conceive and the child to be born would be holy. And Mary responded, “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.”
She said, “Let it be.” One of the greatest Beatles hits was the song “Let it Be.” Some of the words are:
“When I find myself in times of trouble,
Mother Mary comes to me,
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness,
She is standing right in front of me,
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.”
Let it be. But, how difficult it is for us to let it be. When we can’t find a rational explanation for something unplanned it haunts us. We want things to be as WE plan them and want them to turn out.
How frequently do we lose sleep at night, worry, pace, fuss and fume about problems that we probably can’t solve? We want things to be as we want. We become obsessed with answers and explanations only to become totally overwhelmed and anxious over things we can’t fix.
To let it be means to let God be God. To let go of the need to figure everything out, or the need to have a rational explanation for everything that happens. Sometimes we just have to resolve that things are the way they are for reasons beyond our control or our knowledge.
I’d like to share a story with you written by Robert Fulghum, in his book titled Uh-Oh.
“It was the summer of 1959. At the Feather River Inn in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of northern California. A resort environment. And I, just out of college, have a job that combines being the night desk clerk in the lodge and helping out with the horse-wrangling at the stables. The owner/manager is Italian-Swiss, with European notions about conditions of employment. He and I do not get along. I think he’s a fascist who wants peasant employees who know their place, and he thinks I’m a good example of how democracy can be carried too far. I’m twenty-two and pretty free with my opinions, and he’s fifty-two and has a few opinions of his own.
One week the employees were served the same thing for lunch every single day. Two wieners, a mound of sauerkraut, and stale rolls. To compound insult with injury, the cost of meals was deducted from our pay. I was outraged.
On Friday night of that week, I was at my desk clerk job around 11 p.m., and the night auditor had just come on duty. I went to the kitchen to get a snack and saw a note to the chef to the effect that wieners and sauerkraut are on the employee menu for two more days.
That tears it. I quit! For lack of a better audience, I unloaded on the night auditor, Sigmund Wollman. I declared that I have had it up to here; that I am going to go get a plate of wieners and sauerkraut and go and wake up the owner and throw it on him. I am sick and tired of this crap and nobody is going to make me eat wieners and sauerkraut for a whole week and make me pay for it, and who does he think he is anyhow, and how can life be sustained on wieners and sauerkraut, and this is un-American, and I don’t like wieners and sauerkraut enough to even eat it one day, and the whole hotel stinks anyhow, and the horses are all nags, and the guests are idiots and I’m packing my bags and heading for Montana where they never even heard of wieners and sauerkraut and wouldn’t even feed that stuff to the pigs.
Something like that. I raved on this way for about twenty minutes, and needn’t repeat it all here. You get the drift. My monologue was delivered at the top of my lungs, punctuated with blows on the front desk with a fly-swatter, the kicking of chairs and much profanity. As I pitched my fit, Sigmund Wollman, the night auditor, sat quietly on his stool, smoking a cigarette, watching me with sorrowful eyes.
Put a bloodhound in a suit and tie and you have Sigmund Wollman. He’s got a good reason to look sorrowful. Survivor of Auschwitz. Three years. German Jew. Thin, coughed a lot. He liked being alone at the night job—it gave him peace and quiet, time to read and even more, he could go into the kitchen and have a snack whenever he wanted to—all the wieners and sauerkraut he wanted. To him a feast. More than that, there’s nobody around to tell him what to do. In Auschwitz he probably dreamed of such a time.
“Fulchum, are you finished?”“No, why?”“Lissen, Fulchum. Lissen me, lissen me. You know what’s wrong with you? It’s not wieners and kraut and it’s not the boss and it’s not the chef and it’s not this job.”
“So, what’s wrong with me?”“Fulchum, you tink you know everyting, but you don’t know the difference between an inconvenience and a problem. “If you break your neck—if you have noting to eat—if your house is on fire—then you got a problem. Everyting else is inconvenience. Life IS inconvenient. Life IS lumpy.
“Learn to separate the inconveniences from the real problems. You will live longer. And will not annoy people like me so much. Good night.”
In a gesture combining dismissal and blessing, he waved me off to bed. He concludes by writing, “Seldom in my life have I been hit between the eyes with truth so hard. “For thirty years now in times of stress and strain, when something has me backed against the wall and I’m ready to do something really stupid with my anger, a sorrowful face appears in my mind and asks: “Fulchum. Problem or inconvenience?”
For Mary I’m sure this was a significant inconvenience. Why was Mary able to say “let it be?” First, she had a deep, abiding faith. She trusted in the wisdom of God and therefore could submit to God’s plan. How often do we find our personal agendas in direct competition with what God would have us do? Mary and Joseph probably hoped to have a happy marriage in the quiet little village of Nazareth. God, however, had different plans for them.
That’s the way it works with God. Just when we think we have our lives going along smoothly—not great—not bad—God shakes us up with a call. The difficulty is perhaps that we are often willing, even anxious, to settle for less than what God offers us. We are offered God, and want the world instead. Sometimes it takes a drastic event to prepare us to accept God’s offer.
To say, “Let it be,” means to resolve that because of circumstances beyond our control, things are going to be different than we may have anticipated. That could be a shift in our priorities. It could mean we will be embarking on new adventures. Or, it might mean our life has many surprises in store for us in the future.
God doesn’t choose the way we would. God chooses worldly weakness to proclaim divine power. That’s the reason Mary was chosen and the reason we have been chosen. An unknown teenager in an unknown, out-of-the-way place.
We share Mary’s vocation. She was chosen to bear the Savior. In our baptism, we have been appointed to do the same, to bring Christ to the world, to be Christ for the world. Mary gave Jesus a body, so do I, so do you. God has chosen us to be bearers of Christ for the world.
Perhaps we each need to ask this question. “What does God want me to do with my life and am I giving God a chance to work through me?” What is it that you can’t let go of, or, what is it you can’t say, “Let it be” to? To say, “let it be,” really means to say, “yes” to God.
The story of Mary is our story, too. Or, can be. The key is in our response. The whole story of Christmas depended upon one woman’s willingness to say, “I am the handmaid of the Lord. Let it be done to me as you say.” Are we willing to say the same?
When you are in there getting knocked around, bruised and bloodied, and you have a chance to drop out, you drop out! That’s what Robert Fulghum wanted to do. And so do I. And that's healthy psychologists tell us. The healthy person doesn't enjoy suffering. He wants to get out of it. He wants to resolve it. He wants to move the situation to something comfortable. That is why it is so difficult to identify with the Biblical Theme of voluntarily accepting the bruising and the bleeding. When we see how Jesus volunteered and accepted suffering and humiliation and death on our behalf, we discover there is no hiding place, no escape hatch, no way to get out from under, for those who want to be His disciples.
As we celebrate our final Sunday before Christmas, Mary’s willingness to say “yes” to God’s call is an example and a challenge to each of us. Am I as ready as she to say, “Yes!” to God’s call to bring Christ into the world? Am I as ready as she was to risk what doing the will of God might mean in my day-to-day life? If I can follow Mary’s example, then my life will be Christmas for my brothers and sisters, the birth of Christ in unlikely places and circumstances of the world.
We have no choice about experiencing the many interruptions of life. They come simply out of the grace of God. Your only choice is deciding if you will embrace them, allowing them to mold you into someone who looks a lot more like Jesus Christ.
Like Mary and Joseph, say "Yes" to the interruption. Don't resist it. Look for the creativity of the Holy Spirit within it. And say, "Here am I, the servant of the Lord. Let it be to me according to your word."

Let us Pray: O Lord, let it be to us according to your word – even when that word frightens us. Even when it is not the word we were expecting. I pray that we may be people who continue to trust in your word despite the inconveniences—the impossibilities and improbabilities we may think we see. Grant that like Mary we may be willing and humble servants. We ask all things through Christ Jesus, the Babe of Bethlehem, and the one who is both our brother and our Lord. Amen.

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