Sermon Preached on December 5, 2021 (Advent Two)

Luke begins his story with what is, for us, familiar words. The names are etched in our minds, and chances are it’s hard to separate the story from memories that they might invoke. I don’t think there is anything wrong with allowing these kinds of memories bubble up during this season.  Part of the joy and mystery of Advent is preparing but it is also remembering.

That is what Luke is doing for us this morning. He is recalling all the things that had taken place. He wrote that he did so in order to give an “orderly account of all that had taken place.”   Remember this wasn’t written as these events unfolded. Indeed, the Gospels were written a generation or two later, after the fact. After Jesus ministry, the words he taught had to bubble forth as the Gospel began to be shared, orally before they were ever written down. The parables, the healings, the miracles, the odd stories that took the disciples a long time to understand their significance. And now Luke is telling us an orderly account.

I get that. I am sure that I am not the only one who wishes we would have paid a bit more attention to things as they were happening in our past. I tried to savor profound moments, but I didn’t realize that what seemed mundane at the time, would become significant in my memory. There were things that happened at the time that I didn’t have the insight to understand would be profoundly important. I’d love to go back just to experience those moments again.

When I was in seminary, we almost needed a social secretary to schedule our lives. We were busy. I was a full-time student, Julie worked full-time at the Methodist seminary that was located right across the street from where we lived, and our children were young: seven, four and two years old. We moved them from a quiet, shaded street in Topeka Kansas, to a busy, bustling city block in Evanston Illinois. I could end the story by saying that we lived there three years and then moved one more suburb north to Wilmette Illinois so I could start my ministry at the Church of the Holy Comforter in Kenilworth. All of that is true, but so much would have to be left out. And if there is anything that I have learned over the years is that even the small, seemingly insignificant events can end up being the most defining.

We had talked about going to seminary since our first date. I kid you not. I had a sense of a call to a vocation when I was very young, but I certainly would have not been able to articulate it very well. I had a lot of growing up to do. I had many mistakes I had to learn from. I wasn’t even an Episcopalian, but thanks to Julie, that changed shortly after we began dating. And my memory is crystal clear as I think back on that evening, we sat in a living room, sharing what we wanted to do with our lives. “I want to be a pastor,” I foolishly told this beautiful woman who sat across from me.  I probably should have been a bit more intentional in trying to impress her but I had no idea that this woman would one day become my wife. And there is probably nothing worse one could say to a beautiful person sitting across the room from you than “I want to go to seminary.” But alas I did. And thankfully that didn’t ruin anything.

We used to stand in the kitchen and talk about what an ordained life might look like. I am sure I couldn’t separate it from the clapboard house and a white picket fence, and I am sure I thought my life would be a replay of the book series The Mitford Years, none of which can be compared to the reality of what it became. But even so, we spent hours and hours dreaming out loud. One day, I told her, I would become a priest.

Of course, I first had to find a church and so Julie brought me into an Episcopal Church.  It was a place that would later serve as extremely significant as our son, yet unborn, would one day be buried from there.  It would also be the place where I was baptized, along with Joseph, our son. But of course, we had no idea. It was a beautiful place, a bit smaller than here, but they were what I would call “fancy church.” They had it all from stain glass windows to a stained-glass voiced priest. The pipe organ, the vested choir, the banners, and crosses. I don’t remember if it was a specific holy day or not, but they pulled out all the stops. Julie loved it and I, well I put up with it.

Finally, the sermon was over, and I looked at Julie who was hopeful that I would like it as much as she did. She has this way of looking at me that causes me to do a quick introspection. Did I have mustard on my shirt, was I standing when I was supposed to be kneeling, was I singing off-key? I quickly ran through a list of mental checks. No, I was fine.  She was just wondering if I was OK with all that was going on.

Frankly I thought it a bit fussy. I wasn’t raised in a liturgical environment, but I certainly didn’t want to find a fundamentalist church to raise our future family. So, I kept looking for something to connect to… it wasn’t the procession, the choir, or the liturgy.  It was the Nicene Creed. I leaned over and whispered to Julie “if this church believes what we just said, I can be part of it.” I didn’t realize it at the time but that is a huge part of how I experience God: through study and contemplation of God and God’s church.

We got involved quickly but this nagging sense of a call still haunted me. I had to get baptized and then confirmed, which I did. The priest met with each confirmand before confirmation and so I sat down to visit with Fr. Matthews. He asked me what I wanted to do, now that I was becoming an Episcopalian and despite my best efforts to remain quiet, I blurted out “I want to be a priest.”  He smiled, touched me on the knee and said “well, that’s just great. Why don’t you find something to do before you do that?” I was embarrassed and surprised I had been so bold.  I had a sense that everyone who got excited about the church suddenly wanted to be a priest. I was now counted with those who felt that was the only way to serve.

We moved from that town and got involved in the Cathedral in Topeka Kansas. It was a Rite One church, exclusively and the liturgy was grand. I grew to love the historic language of the traditional service and got involved in many aspects of the liturgy, including being the chief acolyte.  Those were great times as my faith came alive in ways that it hadn’t before.  I still wanted to go to seminary and our talks in the kitchen continued until finally we decided the time was right. “Let’s do this,” we said.  And so, the process toward ordination was begun until Julie called timeout.  It seems that she had gotten herself pregnant. We had decided that we would go to seminary with our two children, but if we felt like three children was in our future, then we would have three children and I would continue my job as a public-school teacher. That would mean we’d have to stop talking about seminary.

As they say, if you want to see God smile, tell him your plans. We met with the Dean of the Cathedral to share our news and he calmly and gently encouraged us by suggesting that we stop talking about seminary and enjoy our children and new baby. We agreed and headed home with the promise to stop talking about all that might have been. We did stop. For one day.

And then it all started again. We couldn’t stop dreaming. And so, to make a long and winding story shorter, we restarted everything and eventually loaded up the family in an oversized U-Haul truck and headed to Chicago.

Someone gave us bad directions and so the joy and anticipation were quickly turned to worry and anxiety and as I led Julie, who was following me with our baby in a car seat, through massive traffic due to a Blue’s Festival in downtown Chicago.  Eventually, we made it through the city and traffic, concerned as I kept seeing signs suggesting that U-Haul trucks were not supposed to be on the street where I found myself, inching under overpasses that were almost too low to make it through, and ended up in Evanston Illinois and the city block where we would raise our children for the next three years.  This was the moment we had dreamed about.

In my mind I had thought we would park on the side of the road near marriage student housing, Julie would emerge first, and then I would see her. Slowly we would begin to run toward one another and finally falling into each other’s arms, we would exclaim, “we made it. All our dreams led to this point. Let this great adventure begin.” That’s not quite the way it happened.

Instead, Joseph, our oldest, bolted out of the truck first and looked around. I hardly noticed him as I focused on running into Julie’s arms. Just as we nearly made our dream a reality, Joseph jumped between us, causing us to stumble backwards and loudly proclaimed, in front of God and whatever seminary community was there to witness, an urgent demand. “Quick, he said. I have to have a bowel movement.”

My story is not unique. You have one too. Ultimately it is a story that shares many things in common: that along the way, when we were looking for many different things and either thoughtfully building a life, or having one built for us, the messiah showed up. Just like happened to those real people, in a real place during a real time Perhaps it was rather surprising, but somehow, amid all the busy-ness or messiness of life, God revealed God’s self to us.  That’s why we are here. Maybe it didn’t turn out the way we expected. Maybe it was better, maybe it was just different. But in a specific time and place, where real people live, God manifested God’s self. And the only response that can even begin to make sense is the story that the Angels sang on that Christmas night, “Glory to God in the highest. And peace to his people on earth.”

Those who expected a Messiah in the first century did not get one they expected. It all started in an unlikely, unexpected way, smelling more like hay and wild animals than a King in a palace. And it ended with disappointment and disillusionment, dying on a cross and buried in a grave. No one hung out after his death and waited for resurrection. That was God having God’s last word. Unexpected, perhaps disappointing and disillusioning. But that doesn’t limit God. God delights in the impossible and unlikely.

Let our Advent preparations continue. Despite all the surprises and disappointments, God will have the last word. And the last word is always good.

In Jesus name