January 6, 2008 Des Moines
Epiphany Sunday
Matthew 2:1-12
Seeing a Little Light
Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan
observe, in their new book The First
Christmas, that “Jesus is born in the deepest darkness – in the middle of
the night at the winter solstice. This
is not historical time,” they clarify, since no one really knows the day or
month or even season of Jesus’ historical birth. This is, rather, “parabolic time, metaphorical
time, sacred time, symbolic time. The
symbolism is perfect.” [1]
For the
historically inclined, the positioning of the Christmas celebration on December
25 didn’t occur until around the year 350, when Pope Julius in Rome designated
the day as a way of integrating the Christian story “with a Roman winter
solstice festival celebrating the ‘Birthday of the Unconquered Sun.’ The Roman birthday of the sun became the
Christian birthday of the Son.” [2]
And as if
the darkness theme of the solstice wasn’t enough, tradition has come to
associate the birth of Jesus as happening in the dark of night. Think of all the images from carols that
animate our imaginations –
¬ Silent night, holy night…
¬ O holy night, the stars are brightly shining; it is the night of our
dear Savior’s birth…
¬ O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie. Beneath thy deep and dreamless sleep, the
silent stars roll by. Yet in thy dark
streets shineth the everlasting light.
¬ It came upon the midnight clear…
“In the middle of the night, on the longest night of the
year, the time of deepest darkness, Jesus is born.” And what is it that John says about the birth
– those words that we say every Christmas Eve when we light the Christ
Candle? “What has come into being in
him was life,* and the life was the light of all people. 5The light shines in the darkness, and the
darkness did not overcome it.”
And as if
to underscore the compelling and winsome nature of this light interrupting the
darkness, even those who could have been forgiven for being disinterested in
such things – wise, but non-Jewish men from another country – were even drawn
to Jesus by – what? A light: the very brilliance of God’s own magnetic
force. Non-traditional folk, nonetheless
drawn by the light to the light. Wasn’t
it the prophet Isaiah who had said, “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and
the glory of the Lord has risen upon you….Nations shall come to your light, and
kings to the brightness of your dawn” (60:6)
The world,
closed tight, huddled defensively inside the protective but stifling enclosures
of entrenched rivalries and bigotries and fears and greeds only occasionally
venturing out to brutalize and seek to dominate another; the world drenched in
darkness, suddenly drawn to the light – light that is still threatened by the
Herods of the world, and yet nonetheless still shining.
God knows
there is plenty of darkness still stifling us.
There is still more than enough fear and greed to go around, and still
plenty of chest-beating and war drumming and cartooning and trivializing the
realities of each other. But every now
and then, we, and sometimes those we might least expect -- like the magi in the
story -- see a little light, and come out of our cramped hiding places to warm
in its glow. Some might say that has
even happened in this very room.
This past week marked the 15th
anniversary of the day I unpacked my life in this new home far away from
anything with which I was familiar.
Fifteen years ago I came to join the ministry of this congregation that,
in ways I still had yet to comprehend, was feeling itself to be in a pretty
deep darkness. The good news is that
many in this sanctuary today have no knowledge of those days, but many of you
remember of what I speak.
I knew from conversations with the
Search Committee, for example, that money was short supply. What became quickly clear in the months that
followed was that “short supply” was a breathtaking understatement. Each month the Finance Committee would deal
out the bills in the office conference room and choose which ones we could pay.
Behind the bank statement, there
were people in the pews – although vastly fewer than the cavernous room could
accommodate – but they were dying rapidly.
Year after year we buried our elders – 30 or 40 per year – and our sense
of any future along with them. More
times than one I heard an elderly member hope that we could just keep the
church going long enough to hold his or her funeral.
The very architecture was
demoralizing. The tightness of the pews
meant that when people sat on the ends, no one could get by them to fill up the
rows. And so we worshiped each week
spread out all over the room, with more than enough space around us to lay down
for a nap if the sermon went long. Week
after week we gathered in this space that screamed “decline;” even the light
fixtures accentuated the bleakness.
Psychologically and literally it was dark in here.
Depressing, paralyzing
darkness. A particularly charitable, but
objective observer guessed that we had perhaps as many as five years to turn
things around – and he wasn’t optimistic about our odds.
I recall some of this history just
to put my anniversary into context. To
observe that I have been a part of this congregation for 15 years means, if
nothing else, that we have decisively outlived those speculated five. So what has happened among us during the
passage of these years?
Well, of course I would like to
explain it all by pointing to my charismatic, transformative ministry. But you and I both know better. The facts are that during some of this same
time I passed through some darkness of my own – some of which was quite public;
other parts of which were less apparent – that disabled me from contributing
very much that was very helpful. The
real story of what all has gone on here is much more interesting, and much more
congregational.
We prayed. We studied.
We spoke honestly to one another.
We asked for help. We paid
attention. We listened and watched and
sought to discern what God was doing around us, and how God might use us in
that holy movement. And we saw a
neighborhood not simply depressed, but far moreso fascinating, and wonderfully
interesting. No longer was it primarily
a search for our mission, but rather a clarification of God's mission in this
community, of which we were an instrument.
We looked carefully at ourselves – our gifts and experiences, our
passions and our opportunities, our resources and our particular
curiosities.
And we heard God calling to us in
fresh and irresistible ways that led us not only to change the way we feel,
but change also the way we behave. We
relate to each other differently than we did before. We worship differently, as well. Those changes led us to make significant
changes in this very room – to remove some of the obstacles it was putting in
our way, both functionally and psychologically.
To put it all more succinctly, WE have together been about something truly exciting and inspiring that
continues to unfold and expand. We are
beginning to see a little light.
And a few others are catching sight
of its rising and are drawn to it. It
used to be that we had to pound on the door of the neighborhood association to
be let in. For the longest time the
University across the street forgot that we were here. But in recent years, we have been the ones answering
their calls as often as the ones placing them.
Last summer, Ray Schulte from the
Center for Parish Development in Chicago – the consultant who helped us “Follow
the Fire into the New Century” a few years ago – wrote to ask me to write about
the changes we have made in our worship style as a result of that process. The Center publishes a monthly newsletter for
subscribers all over the country, and they felt like our story might have some
interest. I thought I would jot down a
little summary from which the editors would draw a few thoughts. In October they asked for a few more
paragraphs on our particular setting, which I sent, and lo and behold, our
story became the entire October issue – which I have reproduced in your
bulletin to see what others are reading about you.
Meanwhile, in November I received an
invitation to speak at a conference for Disciples clergy in the MidAmerica
Region – which essentially represents Christian Churches in Missouri. The organizer of the event told me that they
had selected as the theme the image of the Greek myth of Sisyphus who was
doomed to push a heavy stone up the mountain each day, only to find it back at
the bottom the next, starting the uphill push all over again.
“Our ministers are more and more feeling
that way, and they need a word of hope,” she told me.
I mentioned that I had had some
experience with demoralizing ministry, and told a shorthand version of our
congregational story. When I finished
there was silence at the other end of the phone, and finally she said, “Wow, if
you did nothing but tell that story it would be a powerful and inspirational
weekend.”
It is, I agreed, a wonderful story.
And then last month I received a
call from Dwight Dubois. Dwight is the
new Director of the Institute for Renewal housed at Grandview College. He told me that he had been reading an issue
of The Center Letter published by the Center for Parish Development, and
kept noticing familiar landmarks mentioned.
“Then it dawned on me,” he said, “this is in Des Moines!” We have since gotten better acquainted, and
next month I'll be speaking to a group of Lutheran pastors from around Iowa –
you guessed it: to tell them our story. “If you did nothing but tell them your
story,” he concluded, “it would be a morning well-spent.”
Indeed. Your story.
Our story. It's far from perfect
– which is good, because it is far from over.
We have a great history, but in ways that not that long ago we were
afraid might not at all be true, we have a promising future, as well. And for the record, though we will never have
enough money to do all that we would like to do, we are paying our bills. And we are growing – incrementally, to be
sure – but growing, nonetheless. In
worship attendance. In membership. In leadership. And in hopefulness.
We are still praying, still
learning, still discerning who God is calling us to be and where God is calling
us to go. But like the magi, we have
seen a little light, and we are following it, trusting that it is leading us
toward something holy.
And I am grateful for your company
along the way.