Author: harryjheintz

 

I am drawn to cemeteries with historical significance and have been privileged to visit many, among them the battlefields of Gettysburg PA, Arlington National Cemetery, the American Cemetery on the Normandie shore in the north of France, and Punchbowl National Cemetery in Oahu, Hawaii.

 

Since I heard of the vision for the National Memorial for Peace and Justice, I knew I wanted to visit it someday. It opened in April 2018 in Montgomery AL. The visionaries were Bryan Stevenson and the team of the Equal Justice Initiative (EJI), which he founded in 1989. While not a cemetery in the proper sense, the memorial is dedicated to the over 4,000 African-Americans lynched, burned, or drowned in our country after the Civil War.

 

Several years ago, I read Stevenson’s book, “Just Mercy.” It was the best book I read that year and, indeed, one of the most powerful books I have ever encountered. Stevenson is a Philadelphia born black man, now a lawyer living in Montgomery. He has given much of his adult life to defending victims of injustice, usually racial injustice, in Alabama, free of charge. He has been profiled on “60 Minutes” and in major newspapers and magazines. EJI has had some success in getting blacks out of prison, including some that have spent years on death row for crimes they never committed.

 

Thus, I was drawn to visit these two sites in Montgomery even before they were completed. The National Memorial for Peace and Justice has received more acclaim, so I will begin with it. Before visiting it, though I had read the official name, I tended to refer to it as the “lynchings memorial.” And that it is, but more. Set on six acres in downtown Montgomery, it is at first rather unassuming. We arrived late Saturday afternoon and though we had passes for Sunday, we drove right there to see if we could get in. The parking areas were filled and several large buses lined the street by the entrance. We understood when they said they couldn’t let us in that day. Across the street is the visitors center and gift shop. By the entrance steps there is water flowing over memorial plaques with the names of people lynched in that neighborhood. Silence. Inside on one wall are dozens of jars of soil, each jar with a name (sometimes simply “anonymous”) and location. Each jar contains soil from the site of that person’s lynching. Silence. To memorialize the over 4,000 African Americans lynched, or burned, or drowned at the hands of white Americans, without due process (usually without even the semblance of a trial), after the Civil War, from roughly 1870 through 1950, EJI is collecting soil samples from every lynching site thus far identified. We would see more jars in the museum, our next stop.

 

Photos of the memorial can readily be found on the internet. I have already posted some of mine on Facebook. The story of the lynchings of black people at the hands of white is told with several quotes and some written narration, gripping statuary, and the-walk through memorial itself. Nothing seems level. There are angles that quickly reminded me of the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington, DC. The fencing is dark. The grass is green. The heart of the memorial is in the center, where the names of all the lynched men, women, and children are on elongated hanging steel boxes, one for each county in which lynchings have been certified. We were there when it opened on our morning, before buses had arrived. Hence, it was silent virtually our whole hour. I expect that when it is crowded, there is some talking, but not much. The floors slope, so one starts looking right at the names at eye level. Then one turns a corner and the boxes get gradually higher, until one is walking under them. There is a section where the walls are lined by flat hangings with a name on each and a brief description of why that person was lynched. There is a wall with water washing over it, in memory of the lynched persons not yet identified.

 

One exits into a courtyard with replicas of the steel boxes laid flat, the states in alphabetical order. The memorial’s desire is that each county will claim its steel box and display it somewhere for the public to see. I don’t think many have been claimed yet. We white Americans have a hard time admitting what we have done, our horrendous crimes against humanity, indeed against other Americans whose skin is not white.

 

Did I enjoy visiting this memorial? Of course not. The point is not enjoyment, but experiencing a bracing reality in an unforgettable way. Am I glad that I visited it? Yes, emphatically yes. I am an American patriot who refuses to believe my country has never done wrong. I am an American patriot who is not proud of much of our history. I am an American patriot who dreams of a better day, a day when peace and justice reign in our land. After 9/11/2001, Americans said, “We will not forget.” Of course, we will never forget what foreigners did that day on our soil. Yet we too readily want to forget what we did to ourselves, the crimes we, white Americans, committed on black Americans for over three centuries.

 

Have things changed in terms of racism in America today? Yes, in many ways. And no, not in every way. There is a long journey before us today to become that land “of liberty and justice for all.”

 

 

[In a following blog I will write about my visit to the Legacy Museum.}

 

In mid-February we sense the days getting longer, even if but a minute or two a day. Winter is not over in northern climes, but spring has arrived in Florida and Arizona. Last week pitchers and catchers reported to spring training sites and this week baseball’s spring training will be fully underway. Yesterday the news reported that Dodgers one time great Don Newcombe died on February 19 at age 92. He was one of the “boys of summer” Roger Kahn wrote about in his elegant book of the same title about the Brooklyn Dodgers of the mid-50s. Duke Snider, Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella, Pee Wee Reese, Newk—one of the best teams ever. We know real spring isn’t far away, late winter storms notwithstanding. Don Newcombe used to report to Dodgertown in Vero Beach, FL, for spring training in mid-February when he was one of the boys of summer.

 

I once met Don Newcombe, though in a most unusual way. Newk was the first great black pitcher in the major leagues. Satchel Paige may have been the greatest black (or white) pitcher of his time, but he was barred from the majors, merely because of his skin color, until he was an old man, by baseball standards. Newk came up with the Dodgers in 1949, two years after Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier. Jackie’s 100^th birthday was just a few weeks ago; he died at age 53 of a heart attack. Newk won the Rookie of the Year award and quickly established himself as a top-level pitcher. He did something rarely done: he won both the Cy Young Award as best pitcher in the majors and the National League MVP award in 1956. (The New York Times obituary on Don Newcombe is worth reading to get a fuller picture of the baseball player and the man.)

 

My cousin Jimmy and I were walking toward the driving range of the Western Ave. Public Golf Course (it is now named the Chester Washington Golf Course) in Los Angeles one morning around 60 years ago. We were youngsters and had been teaching ourselves to golf. That golf course was near enough our homes that we could ride our bikes there. That morning, before we could get a bucket of balls to hit, I saw Don Newcombe and Maury Wills hitting golf balls. Newcombe stood 6 feet 4 inches, with an imposing frame. Wills was a smallish man who was becoming the rage in Los Angeles for stealing bases as the Dodgers’ shortstop. He stood 5 feet 11 inches with a thin frame. In 1962 he would steal 104 bases, something never done before in baseball history. Why were they there? That golf course was one of the few public courses that allowed African-Americans to play. Even in Los Angeles of the late 1950s and early 1960s, a progressive city by American standards, there was lingering de facto segregation. White people would pay good money to watch black athletes like Newk and Wills excel on the playing field, but weren’t sure they wanted them on their golf courses. Both Jackie Robinson and Don Newcombe served their country in the military, yet they experienced the pain of racial segregation in their homeland. Newk gave two of his prime baseball years to military service.

 

Jimmy and I had never caddied, but we saw our opportunity. We approached Wills and Newk and asked, “Can we caddy for you today?” We hardly knew what that meant, but they said, “Sure.” And so we did. We carried their golf bags for 18 holes and handed them the desired clubs and put them back in the golf bags. We knew the course from playing it, but I doubt that we offered suggestions. We were rather in awe to be walking the course with two big leaguers, two Dodgers of distinction. At the end of the round they paid us, though we didn’t ask for or expect any money. We got their autographs, wished them well, and biked to our homes to tell our parents what we had just done. Both my parents were serious Dodgers fans, so they were duly impressed. Where are those autographs now? Long gone. When I went off to college, my parents moved into a smaller home. My collection of baseball cards and memorabilia didn’t make the cut. But I do still have a scuffed baseball signed by Duke Snider, Sandy Koufax, and Don Drysdale that my daughter rescued for me. All three are in the Hall of Fame, and only Koufax of them, the ever classy Koufax, is still alive.

 

It is well known that the Dodgers moved from their beloved old Brooklyn, call it Flatbush, with its rickety old Ebbets Field to glitzy LA, where the uber-modern Dodger Stadium would be built for them. It was my good fortune to be living in LA when that happened. I grew up worshiping that team, first when they were in Brooklyn and then in my hometown, LA. But they still wear the classic, clean Dodgers’ uniform. And every so often, another of the boys of summer dies. This week it was Newk, the great Don Newcombe. My cousin and I once caddied for Newk and Maury. I had never caddied for any one before and I have not for any one since. Maury is still alive, along with Sandy. I am hoping that Maury will be elected to the Hall of Fame before he dies. He deserves it. His base-stealing changed the modern game of baseball. He and Newk were pretty good golfers too. Very good. Farewell and RIP, Don Newcombe, one of the boys of summer.

[Much of what I write below I prepared for and proclaimed at the funeral of a dear friend, Marion Yaiser, of Troy, NY. Marion died on February 2, just a few days shy of her 97^th birthday. Her life was a prism for God’s love.]

1 Corinthians 13

If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. ² And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. ³ If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast,^[a] but do not have love, I gain nothing.

⁴ Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant ⁵ or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; ⁶ it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. ⁷ It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

⁸ Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. ⁹ For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part; ¹⁰ but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end. ¹¹ When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. ¹² For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. ¹³ And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

 

One cannot live in this world, in any little section of it, without knowing that there is a deficit in the matter of love in our world. The way things are is not the way God designed and intended life to be. The garden God gave to us has been littered with garbage. The human family is filled with strife, fear, and too much hatred. But make no mistake, love is present in our world and in every little corner of it. If love were completely gone, so would life as we know it be gone. Love is the fuel that keeps the heart of this planet pumping. Love is the engine that energizes this train forward. We see it in more ways than we can count. We see it especially in faithful lives governed by love, like Marion’s.

 

When the Spirit of God nudged the Apostle Paul to pen this chapter we name as 1 Corinthians 13, the world was as divided as it is now. Super powers ran over smaller nations then as they do now. Fear of the other was strong, as it is now. Refugees and asylum seekers were in perilous circumstances as they are now. Jesus, just a toddler, and his parents were refugees seeking asylum in a foreign country (would they be met by a wall or a welcome?). Ethnic and racial animosity was strong, as it is now. Women struggled to achieve full personhood, then as now. There is not much new under the sun. The need for love was great then, and it is as great now.

 

Paul’s introduction to this love was altogether unexpected. His birth name was Saul. He was religious in the worst way. His religious commitment sharply divided the world into insiders and outsiders. He, by birth, training, and behavior was an insider. That drove him to despise this new movement started by Jesus, in which people of high and low birth, insiders and outsiders, found in a humble, peasant carpenter a whole new way or being and living. That spark of love that Saul once sought to extinguish finally overwhelmed him. So fully did this love capture him that he needed a new name for his new identity: Paul. Paul, apostle of God’s love to outsiders.

 

In reading the glorious poetry of this love chapter, know that it came from the heart of a man who once thought he could earn God’s favor by being religious. Who needed love? Just keep the rules. Keep the insiders in and outsiders out. So it once was for Paul, until he met this radical Jesus and his world was turned upside down. He would never be the same. Love has that power.

 

Love in the living, breathing form of Jesus of Nazareth changes everything. Eugene Peterson, a mentor of mine who died about four months ago, translated the verse we know as John 1:14 this way in “The Message”: “the word became flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood.” Jesus enfleshed (incarnated) the love of God for us. When Jesus was asked by a lawyer which commandment in the law is the greatest? “Jesus said to him, ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment.  And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”

 

The death of every one near and dear to us is a bell ringer and an opportunity. The death of a loved one, whatever the age and circumstances, gets our attention. This life is not all there is. But this life is our opportunity to live in love and get the life of this world closer to God’s original design, a garden of love, with every aspect of life in loving harmony.

 

That love that “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things” fuels my vision for what can be. I hope for a world in which all children are loved and nourished every day and sleep in comfort and safety every night. A world in which all are well fed and no one goes hungry. A world with no room for hatred. A world in which we tend the garden God gave us in this planet, protecting its fragile beauty and incredible variety. A world in which war is no more. A world in which every person is seen as an image bearer of God the loving Creator. The source for these visions, these hopes, of mine is the Bible, in which the loving heart of God is revealed. The energy for these visions is that love that “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” Love that never fails, never runs dry, and is never in short supply.

 

In the Greek language of the New Testament there were several good words for love: family love, brotherly/sisterly love, and physical love. All those were good. But none of them individually or taken together could catch the full scope of this new love we find in Jesus. So they took a little used word, agape, and made it the word for this love from God revealed in Jesus. The essence of this love is that it is not transactional. It is not, I’ll do this for you, and I will expect you to do this for me. It is not, I love you because you are so lovely. Rather, it is love that gives and gives without thought of receiving. Frankly, it is not the way we love naturally. Left to myself, I do not love in this way. This love comes to us by the grace of God, whether we acknowledge it or not. Rather than transactional, it is transformational. It intends to change us and make us new. It calls us to love God and love neighbor, without distinction. It is not a feeling, but a choice, a decision we make over and over again, every day.

 

The power of God’s love is seen and experienced in lives transformed by that love. But it isn’t something we just decide to do; it is the divine at work in the human, in the routine, mundane world of everyday life.

 

That love cannot be severed from us. “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

 

This day when card shops, florists, and candy makers help us to express love to others, let us consider what it means for us to live in love this day and every day. “And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As we recently observed our national holiday commemorating the life and prophetic ministry of Martin Luther King, Jr., and enter black history month, February, there have been several incidents in the media of on-camera persons apparently inadvertently and unintentionally misspeaking King’s full name in a way that suggested a racial slur. These and the atmosphere created by some national events in the last two years, such the Charlottesville, VA, white supremacist march, and the rise of hate crimes, keep fresh before us the racist history of our nation and cause us to reflect on where we are today as “one nation, undivided, with liberty and justice for all.”

 

There are at least two levels to racism. First, there is the individual level. Second, there is the societal, systemic level. This second level might easily break into several sub-categories, such as institutional racism, corporate racism, educational racism, and judicial racism. I will lump those expressions of racism in one larger category, a category that is larger than one-on-one individual racism and far more pervasive: societal, systemic racism.

 

At the first level, almost no one admits being a racist. At the second level, most majority persons (white persons in America) participate in racism by benefitting from it, whether directly or indirectly. Often they refuse to admit the reality that racism exists in systemic ways, beyond just the individual level. I have benefitted from racism by being in the privileged white majority. A black person of my age and life circumstances has had to deal with racist attitudes that I have not. He or she knows what it is be watched warily for walking into a good store; I have not. He knows what it is to be pulled over and questioned by a police officer for legally driving a car; I do not. They know what it is to be presumed guilty; I do not.

 

This year marks 400 years since the first Africans were shipped here against their wills to become slaves. The indentured slavery of millions of Africans, eventually African-Americans, continued unabated for about 250 years. Under President Lincoln we finally began to end the legalized slavery of people of African origin. But the last 150 years have been a tortured journey for our country in recognizing the full humanity of those persons. In the 1950s and 60s we saw a tremendous movement forward for the civil rights of all persons, especially blacks. All three branches of our government finally made some positive movement for civil rights. The primary face and voice of that movement was Martin Luther King, Jr., who spoke to both levels of racism, individual and institutional. Since his emergence in the 1950s, King has both been heralded and reviled. That continues. So it has always been with prophets that speak truth to power. People still fly the flag of the Confederacy—both in the south and in the north. That flag is not a symbol of regional identity, but of armed rebellion against the United States. While some southern cities have removed statues of Confederate leaders and Confederate flags from public places (give credit to courageous white leaders like Governor Niki Haley of South Carolina and Mayor Mitch Landrieu of New Orleans), many still stand in public places. Those Confederate leaders took up arms against their country. If they were defending a way of life, it was a racist way of life that demeaned and de-humanized millions of human beings, bearers of the image of God.

 

It is that second level of racism that continues to be so insidious. An example is that in 2008 we finally elected a person of African origin to be president. That was an amazing step forward for a country with a long racist history. Yet for the greater part of his eight-year presidency, his legitimate birth on American soil was publicly questioned, most famously by Donald Trump for over five years. Institutional racism is evident whenever a black person driving an attractive car is pulled over by police officers because they view a black person driving a nice car as suspicious. I know about this from the black students I teach in classes at Northeastern Seminary. Systemic racism is evident whenever black persons do not receive a fair hearing in our justice system. It is evident whenever blacks are seen as suspicious and dangerous for no other reason than the color of their skin. Can a white person really listen to black Americans and read about the black experience in America and deny that level two racism continues in our country? In some ways it has been growing over the last two years, perhaps as a backlash against the Obama presidency and certainly stoked by some of what President Trump has said and not said.

 

Of the books I have read recently that deal with the American racial dilemma, none has been more powerful than Bryan Stevenson’s Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption. Any white person thinking our justice system is colorblind needs to read this book. Stevenson also envisioned a memorial to the lynchings of thousands of black Americans in the century after the Civil War. That opened last year in Montgomery, AL. I will be visiting it in a month.

While I started this earlier in January, I am now writing on January 31. On this day 100 years ago Jack Roosevelt Robinson was born. Jackie was perhaps the most gifted male athlete of the 20^th century. At UCLA he earned varsity letters with distinction in four sports: track and field, football, basketball, and baseball (I don’t believe anyone had ever done that before). And then, in 1947, he broke the color barrier in Major League Baseball. It was an honor that came with the most vitriolic kinds of hate and threats. In a meteoric ten-year career, he excelled in every aspect of the game while he exhibited unbelievable restraint. Some have noted that Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, Jr., could do what they did for civil rights in part because of what Jackie Robinson did on baseball fields a decade before.

 

On this day in 1865 the 13^th Amendment to the Constitution was ratified, ending legal slavery in the United States. President Lincoln established the framework in his Emancipation Proclamation of January 1, 1863, then worked with all the political skill he had to get Congress to make that new burst of freedom an explicit part of the Constitution (read about that in “Team of Rivals” by Doris Kearns Goodwin or see the excellent movie “Lincoln”). In his unforgettable Gettysburg Address, Lincoln articulated that this nation’s foundational document is the Declaration of Independence, not the Constitution. Our ideals as a nation precede and surpass our way of governing. While many of our founders could not envision blacks or women as full participants in this emerging idealistic nation, they set a framework in which social progress and evolving understanding of the civil rights of all people could happen.

 

Where are we in this long journey in 2019? Acknowledging that much progress has been made, we must also acknowledge that much progress is still to be made. It is not enough to say, “I am not a racist” and leave it at the individual level. Systemic racism is far more insidious and pervasive; this nation has not moved past it yet. One comment by a president, one decision by the Supreme Court, one act of legislation from the Congress, and decades of hard earned civil rights can be endangered.

 

Update: Saturday morning, Feb. 2. Yesterday it was revealed that the Governor Ralph Northam of Virginia, a Democrat who was elected just a year ago, was in a photo in his Virginia Medical School yearbook wearing either blackface or full KKK regalia. It wasn’t clear which was one was the future governor, but he admitted to being one of them, as the two stood close together. The calls for him to resign are coming from all over the nation, from members of both parties. Of course, he claims he is not a racist. Don’t all white Americans claim not to be racists? The year was 1984. I was 39 years old, a father of two children. We knew better in 1984.

 

About this, Connie Schultz wrote today: “My heart is so heavy. For all my optimism, I know my grandchildren will not outlive racism in America. Call me naïve for ever hoping that they would, but even this morning, I’d rather be the person who is disappointed than the cynic who gives up on America.” Connie Schultz speaks for me. I, too, would like my grandchildren to know an America that is no longer racist. Hence, I will continue to experience disappointment. But I will not give up hope and I will not be silent.

 

In my retirement, I get to do occasional preaching. For over a year, I have been preaching once a month for a small Presbyterian church near me. They have a part-time pastor, but she has a full-time day job, so sometimes I am able to make hospital calls for her.

 

A while back I made such a visit. Jane (not her real name) had become a good friend at this congregation. A few months before my visit, she found out that she had cancer. Nearby is a major medical center, with its own cancer hospital. I have visited there no more than a handful of times, but each time been impressed by the tone and environment. It is quiet and peaceful, lacking many of the sometimes irritating sounds one hears in a hospital. The lighting is subdued. The rooms are welcoming to visitors. Workers are not hurrying about.

 

While I was visiting Jane, a doctor knocked on the door and gently entered. Jane introduced me to him. He reached out his hand and identified himself not with his title, but with his first name. He didn’t act as if a god had just entered the room—so move aside everyone! I asked if he wanted me to step out for a few minutes. He said, no, I was welcome to stay. I sat off to the side to give him room. He sat next to Jane and gently asked questions and listened to her. There was nothing profound in this, except he wasn’t acting like the Savior, but like a listening, caring friend. He made reference to me, calling me her buddy. He named higher powers at work, admitting that doctors don’t know everything. Because of the nature of Jane’s cancer, he led her to speak about death, about her fears and hopes.

 

It was as if he had been trained in pastoral care (perhaps he was). When he left, he again shook my hand and thanked me for being there. I thanked him for being there for my friend, my buddy.

 

Some months later Jane died. She once gave me a mug that had a character saying, “Hey God, I really like your book.” Whenever I have a hot beverage in that mug, I think of Jane and give thanks for her life. And I remember that day I visited her in a cancer hospital.

[This sermon was delivered on Epiphany Sunday, January 6, 2019, at Parkminster Presbyterian Church, Rochester.]

 

The Magi would have been thrilled by the last several weeks. Just over a month ago, NASA had landed a space probe named InSight on the surface of Mars after a journey of about 400 million miles. On New Year’s Day, NASA’s New Horizons mission, after traveling about four billion miles, sent back to earth some photos of Ultima Thule, a snowman looking piece of ice about 21 miles high. It is at the far edge of our solar system. Closer to home, China just landed a probe on the far side of the moon, just a meager 250,000 miles or so away. These space probes stagger the imagination. I used to hope that NASA would have a pastor in space program—and would choose me to be the first pastor to fly in space. Now I hope they will have a retired pastor in space program—and will choose me: I’m ready. I will quickly shed those seven pounds I gained over the holidays. I love great journeys and adventures.

 

The Magi would have been thrilled about this: all these starry journeys–and the world remembering today their long and perilous journey to Bethlehem. However, contrary to popular Christmas custom, they didn’t arrive right after the shepherds. My wife and I have collected well over a dozen crèches. They all have shepherds and Magi, as if they were racing to get there first. It was not quite that way. We take a closer look.

 

We don’t know much about these Magi. They weren’t named and no number of them is given. Magi, which I prefer over wise men, suggests astrologers, which didn’t necessarily mean fortune-tellers. Today we more likely would call them astronomers or astro-physicists. They studied the night skies for clues as to the meaning of it all. They were likely from Persia, known in the ancient world for its fascination with the heavens. Modern day Iran is what once was Persia.

 

One night they saw a star of unprecedented brilliance. It enthralled them. They had never seen such a star. They were compelled to follow it and find where it would lead them. That began a long journey, perhaps 400 to 500 miles, not knowing where it would lead them. It was a “coddiwomple,” which means a purposeful journey toward a vague destination. It would have taken at least a month and likely much longer to complete this journey.

 

When they arrived in Jerusalem, they were granted an audience with King Herod. While Herod served at the pleasure of the Roman Emperor, Israel was far from Rome and relatively unimportant. So Rome didn’t pay much attention to Jerusalem, and Herod fancied himself more important than he was. Richard Middleton, my colleague at Northeastern Seminary, wrote an article a few years back entitled “Keep Herod in Christmas.” In our joy-filled celebrations of Christmas, there was a dark side, embodied by this Herod. When he heard from the Magi that there was another king on the scene, he bridled with jealousy. He went so far as to issue an edit that all the boy children in Bethlehem under two years of age be slaughtered. And there was weeping in the little town of Bethlehem. That meant that Joseph, Mary, and little Jesus become political refugees and fled for another country. I wonder how their border crossing was? Were they treated kindly? Did the border guards try to separate the child from his parents? How were these refugees treated in a strange country? Such was Herod’s narcissistic rage.

 

When the Magi finally arrived at little Bethlehem, “… they were overjoyed.”  Literally, they were mega-joyed. This toddler hardly looked the part of a king. But this is where that star led them. At the end of this long journey they were overjoyed. I think there is a shortage of great joy today. Their mega-joy was not based on their circumstances, but on following a star and finding a Savior.

 

They worshiped the young child. There are a handful of words for worship in the New Testament. This is the one for bowing down, all the way down. Literally, it means “to kiss forward.” It is a word describing lavish worship, not refined and restrained Presbyterian worship.

 

They just happened to have gifts. The gifts just didn’t happen to be very child-friendly. They might have brought a new Hess truck, some Legos, and some teething rings; those would have served this child better. And a casserole and brownies for Mary and Joseph. And a few months’ supply of Pampers. Instead they brought gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Those gifts suggest that they were thinking beyond a child-king; these were gifts fits for royalty. Myrrh even suggests that a death may be in sight.

 

Seven centuries before Jesus was born in Bethlehem, God gave Isaiah a glimpse of things to come: “Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you. See, darkness covers the earth and thick darkness is over the peoples, but the Lord rises upon you and his glory appears over you. Nations will come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.” Of the event John writes, “the light shines in the darkness and the darkness has been unable to put it out.” (John 1:5)

 

Some modern astronomers have tentatively calculated all the light that exists in the universe. Using the measure of photons (the word comes directly from the Greek word for light, from which we get photography), they estimate that the universe has about 4×10 to the 84^th power of photonic light. That is a 4 followed by 84 zeros. Yet the observable universe has about 2 trillion galaxies and about a trillion trillion stars. On a clear cloudless and moonless night, away from all ambient light, perhaps perched on a mountaintop, one can get a feel for the immensity of God’s creation. And on that night, the light of all those galaxies and stars is set against a backdrop of darkness, like diamonds and pearls scattered on black velvet. Most of the universe is a dark backdrop for the dazzling display of God’s light.

 

Back to planet Earth, back to the ancient Middle East, back to pagan Persia, back to humble Israel, back to a little town named Bethlehem, a baby was born. A star child. A heaven-sent savior. The word become flesh. We note that two groups were recorded as visiting this young savior. Luke tells about the shepherds. They were the most ordinary of people. Hard-working, long hours, dirt under their fingernails. Probably ritually unclean to the religious leaders. Matthew, who gospel is most written for a Jewish audience, has a group of foreigners. Pagans. Strangers to the covenant God made with Israel. They were learned, and judging by their gifts and availability to make such a journey, wealthy. These strange Gentile visitors from far away, lead the way for all who would travel to Bethlehem to worship Jesus.

 

And then, they face a long journey home. God warns them in a dream not to go back to Herod. How will they get home? Maybe God had another star for them.

 

What journeys will 2019 hold for us? Who knows? God knows. We do not know, nor should we, what the new year holds. It is not ours to know exactly where we are heading. It is for us to follow the stars God hangs before us.

In my home we have been putting our Christmas decorations away the last few days. The tree is down, but there are still a few poinsettias by the fireplace. Over a dozen manger sets are still out and will stay so for a while longer. When I look at those nativity sets, with shepherds on one side of the manger and Magi on the other, I see room for all of us, insiders and outsiders. I think of the words Howard Thurman wrote for this season.

When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and the princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flocks,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,

 To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among people,
To make music in the heart.

 

 

Having done this once before, I venture out again. In each category my choices are not listed in priority order, but usually in the order I read or saw them, or remembered them.

 

Books

Of the thirty-some I read last year, these stand out.

Fear, Trump in the White House. Bob Woodward. Another chapter in the “All the President’s Men” tradition.

Unbelievable. Katie Tur. She covered the Trump campaign from day one to election day, 2018. Yes, Trump tried bullying and mocking her, but she persevered.

A Higher Loyalty. James Comey. While he has offended leaders from both parties, I believe he really cares about honor and duty, a higher kind of loyalty than partisanship.

Playing with Fire: 1968, Lawrence O’Donnell. A look at the year in which so much went wrong in America. (But that was the year I married Rachel, so some things went well, really well.) This was my favorite book of the year.

Inspired. Rachel Held Evans. A fresh and artistic take on the nature of the inspiration of the Bible.

Obama, An Intimate Portrait. Pete Souza. Obama’s official White House photographer gives wonderful insights into the Obama presidency with some narration and lots of beautiful photos. This goes alongside The Face of Lincoln, a treasury of photographs of my favorite president that I bought in a used book store in Grand Rapids, MI, over 20 years ago for $7. This one cost more.

 

Movies

Note that I don’t see most of the year-end releases until early or not so early in the new year, so there is a time warp here. I anticipate seeing some of the notable movies of 2018 in the next two months.

Lady Bird. The amazing Saoirse Ronan strikes again. See anything with her in it (especially Brooklyn, my favorite Ronan movie thus far).

The Greatest Showman. This fictionalized story of P. T. Barnum didn’t got so-so reviews, but I am still thinking about it months after seeing it. The vision of a bunch of misfits, brought together by Barnum for his financial success, becoming a community was wonderful, as was the music.

A River Runs Through It. I hadn’t seen this in about 25 years. It popped up on one of the old movie networks and I remembered it well so thought it time to give it another look. This is one of the most beautiful movies—scenery and story—I have ever seen.

Won’t You Be My Neighbor?  I want to live in Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood. What a kind and caring person was Fred Rogers. How we need such persons today (though I expect there are always plenty around, showing kindness without fanfare or self-interest).

First Reformed. A rather dark look at a struggling pastor in a tough place, but raising important issues.

RBG. Ruth Bader Ginsburg. What an amazing woman.

 

TV

60 Minutes.  A weekly look into fascinating stories, places, and people, running strong after 50 years.

Blue Bloods. My favorite weekly series. I love the camera angles of NYC and the Reagans’ Sunday dinner discussions.

American Experience. I don’t catch every one of these PBS documentaries, but I love the ones I see.

The Royal Wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle. Okay, I am drawn to princes named Harry. That black gospel choir. That stirring sermon on love by the American Presiding Bishop Michael Curry. A British royal marrying a once-divorced, bi-racial American commoner. Bring back Downton Abbey, set in our time.

Mayo Clinic: Faith-Hope-Science. Another fascinating documentary from the Ken Burns team. Previously unknown to me, William Mayo teamed with Mother Alfred Moes and the nurses of the Sisters of Saint Francis to create one of the most heralded and renowned hospitals in the world. Mayo and his two sons saw faith and medical science working hand in hand. Hmm, faith and science working together…. What a wonderful concept.

The MLB playoffs and World Series. The best team won the most games in the regular season, then every AL playoff series, and then the World Series. It rarely works out that way—this time it did. Sweet thoughts to hold close till mid-February, when pitchers and catchers report. I watched every inning of the World Series except the bottom of the 18^th of game three.

The Kennedy Center Honors. Every December, right after Christmas Day, I revel in this tribute to performing artists of the highest caliber.

Great Performances. I don’t see all of these on PBS, but the ones I see are usually outstanding (like the 100^th birthday tribute to Leonard Bernstein and the New Year’s Eve show with Renee Fleming (of Rochester, NY) and the NY Philharmonic.

 

Stage performances

Fiddler on the Roof. I don’t know how many times I have seen this on stage, plus the excellent movie, but I will never tire of it. A national touring company came to Rochester in December. Of all musicals, and I have my handful of favorites, Fiddler has the greatest emotional grab on me. Ask the woman seated next to me how many tissues I need.

Hamilton. Yes, on Broadway! It is as good as everything that has been said and written about it. And a touring company is coming to Rochester this spring. Can’t wait to see it again.

Come From Away. We saw this musical about the response of the people of Gander, Newfoundland, to thousands of weary travelers suddenly stuck there for almost a week right after 9/11 the day after we saw Hamilton. While Hamilton may have dwarfed this modest production, it did not.

The Hunchback of Notre Dame. This wonderful musical adaption of the Victor Hugo novel and various other productions of it was performed by the Gates-Chili High School and featured my younger grandson as Quasimodo. Wow!

In the liturgical tradition in which I am finding myself more at home as times go by, Advent is a distinct season of about a month leading to Christmas. The four Sundays of Advent are the four immediately before Christmas.

 

Advent is a call to slow down and prepare our hearts for Christmas as carefully as we decorate our homes. Hence, it is counter to the commercial culture in which Christmas begins as soon as the Thanksgiving feast is cold, or even earlier. The all Christmas music radio stations may begin in November. Then we have black Friday, small business Saturday, cyber Monday, and giving Tuesday—all in a span of under one week. That just doesn’t generate Christmas spirit in me.

 

Churches that follow the lectionary, pre-selected scripture readings used widely in much of Christianity, have a countdown to Christmas. It starts with Jesus’ promise to come again, then comes John the Baptist, ever pointing us to Jesus, and then, spread over a three-year cycle, Elizabeth and Zechariah, the angel Gabriel, and Mary and Joseph; all from the Gospels. The drama is carefully building toward the birth of Jesus the Messiah.

 

Accordingly, the hymns of early Advent lean toward “O Come, O Come, Immanuel,” “Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus,” “On Jordan’s Banks the Baptist’s Cry,” “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence,” and versions of Mary’s song, the Magnificat. That is a beautiful approach, one I wholeheartedly endorse.

 

Yet I believe there is no need for true Christmas hymns/carols to be held off until Christmas Eve and the Sunday following. That puts worshipers in a strange place. We have to squeeze a glorious treasury of Christmas praise into just two or three services. It can’t be done! The canon of Christmas music is too large and wonderful for just two or three services. Our best singing of these glorious anthems is in our own congregations. My favorite hymnal, “Glory to God,” has almost 50 Christmas hymns and songs. That is about twice as large as its Advent section.

 

My modest suggestion is this: let’s sing some of these great Christmas hymns on Advent Sundays, geared to the building drama of Advent preparation. Not all of them; some of them. Let’s keep some, like “Go, Tell It on the Mountain,” for actual Christmas season. But others can easily be sung in Advent as we move forward in our preparations for Christmas. On Advent Sundays, I suggest that Advent hymns be used earlier in worship with Christmas hymns and songs coming later in the services and more so in the second half of Advent. Judiciously including some Christmas hymns before December 24 won’t ruin the keeping of Christmas. After all, we are hearing every kind of holiday music in the malls, markets, and stores (I even hear them when I jog in my local recreation center). I put some of my favorite Christmas CDs in my car in early December. That saves me from radio sets that might sandwich “O Holy Night” between “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Some of my favorites include the Christmas section of Handel’s “Messiah,” Pentatonix, The Carpenters, John Rutter, Amy Grant, and Michael Card. These CDs get me ready for Christmas, even as I listen (and sing along) in Advent.

 

Advent rightly points us to and prepares us for a joyous Christmas. There is not a harsh divide between them; both are filled with wonder and awe. I want to honor both, not blurred, but in some ways overlapping to the glory of God and working together to proclaim “this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.”

[This sermon was delivered at Parkminster Presbyterian Church on the First Sunday of Advent, December 2, 2018. The texts: Jeremiah 33:14-16 and Luke 21:25-36.]

 

Picture slowing down from 12,300 miles per hour (MPH) to five MPH. Last Monday (11/26/18), we landed the InSight space probe on the surface of Mars. After a six-month journey covering 300 million miles, the InSight had to slow down, from 12,300 MPH to five MPH in under seven minutes. The NASA engineers called it the seven minutes of terror. If InSight hadn’t slowed down it would be crashed on the surface of Mars and been obliterated in a moment. InSight succeeded; talk about power brakes! It slowed down and made safe landing and is now exploring the depths of the red planet.

 

Advent calls us to slow down. A professor at Fuller Seminary, Arch Hart, had a ministry of helping burned out pastors reclaim healthy practices and recover healthy lives. One tool he suggested was that when we are checking out at a market, we should look for the longest line, go to the end of that line and learn to wait, looking at the people around us and praying for them. I did not warm up to that idea readily. I tend to play the game of finding the shortest line. Though I can justify it as good time management, I am not proud of it; it can make me seem rude. Life isn’t a game to be won, but an adventure to be lived. Part of the adventure is being mindful of the people around us and the wonders of life and nature around us. Such living requires good brakes. The CBS newsmagazine “60 Minutes” did a report several months ago about one of our country’s most renowned nature photographers. What is the secret to his amazing ability to photograph wildlife in the purest natural settings? Getting up early, finding his place of quiet watch, and silently waiting for hours with camera ready. Nothing may happen for hours. So get up the next day and do it again. That is not a bad description of what Advent can be: finding places of quiet and silently waiting for the Lord.

 

Our word advent has two meanings: the first is to arrive (or an arrival, a coming); the second has to do with something about to happen. The first carries the sense of an event. The second carries the sense of journeying toward something or someone, often with some hazard or danger.

 

Our Advent begins with promises. “‘The days are coming,’ declares the Lord, ‘when I will fulfill the good promise I made to the people of Israel and Judah.’” Keeping Advent does not come readily to us. We have this countdown: Thanksgiving Thursday, Black Friday, Small Business Saturday, Cyber Monday, giving Tuesday. Why not throw in Christmas Eve on Wednesday and Christmas on Thursday—get it all over in one week! Radio stations have already been playing every imaginable Christmas piece of music (it seems that some stations started the day after Labor Day). One set on the radio might start with “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” followed by “O Holy Night,” and conclude with “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” That just doesn’t put me in the holiday frame of mind. Santa is appearing daily at malls, breakfasts, Christmas tree farms, restaurants, and parking lots. How can we help from joining in? How dare we not join in?

 

Advent calls us to hear the words of the prophets, not be consumed with bottom line profits. Just over a month ago, Eugene Peterson died, one of pastor heroes and mentors. Eugene called me to be an unbusy pastor. I make an admission: pastors sometimes try to look busy because they think it will cause the congregation to think they are really important with all these demands on their time. Eugene helped me to be an unbusy pastor. I always took a full sabbath day once a week. I always used all my vacation and study leave time. I kept reasonable hours. I sought to be a fully engaged and healthy pastor rather than a busy pastor. I needed and need the call of Advent in all seasons, and particularly in this season of unfettered busyness.

 

Our Advent begins with promise. “‘The days are coming,’ declares the Lord, ‘when I will fulfill the good promise I made to the people of Israel and Judah.’”  (See Jeremiah 33:14-16.) What a relief to pastors and the congregations they serve to know that God will keep God’s promises. We don’t need to try to be God. Look at some of the key players in the first advent of Jesus. Mary always seems to be pondering in her heart what is nearly beyond belief. Joseph is the original silent male, never quoted as saying one word. Zechariah, a priest whose voice is needed in his calling, loses his voice for nine months. His wife, Elizabeth, goes into seclusion when she finds out she is pregnant. They don’t make this happen by dint of will. God is keeping God’s ancient promises. We wait and watch for God at work and our parts in that work.

 

Jeremiah is often called the weeping prophet. God raised him up during one of Israel’s worst times. God’s chosen people were turning their backs on God. The Babylonians were emerging as the new superpower. And, get this, God would actually use the Babylonians against Israel. Jeremiah faithfully speaks God’s word, more often in judgment, but at times in hope. Jeremiah had reason to weep as he saw corrupt leadership in Israel’s highest governing offices. Jeremiah had reason to weep as he saw corrupt leadership in Israel’s highest religious offices. His tears were treasured by God and that God had promised a messiah: “In those days and at that time I will make a righteous Branch sprout from David’s line; he will do what is just and right in the land.” It would be 600-700 years before that branch appears. But God keeps faith and God honors promises. That branch came and today we enter our four weeks of preparation to celebrate the sprouting of that branch.

 

In Luke 21 we see the world being turned upside down. The chapter begins with a poor old widow bringing her two cents as her Temple offering. The religious leaders look down or away from her. Jesus is seeing things we would never see. Look at the postures Jesus gives for living through tumultuous times:

• “When these things begin to take place, stand up and lift up your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”
• “When you see these things happening, you know that the kingdom of God is near.”
• “Be always on the watch, and pray that you may be able to escape all that is about to happen, and that you may be able to stand before the Son of Man.”

 

Our times have parallels to Jeremiah’s and Luke’s times. The world is uneasy. Political tensions are everywhere. There is a crisis in public civility in our time in our nation, particularly in the current political world. There is a loneliness crisis in our time, evidenced in these statistics:

• 70,000 deaths due to opioid abuse occurred last year.
• 47,000 deaths by suicide occurred last year.

 

Advent calls us to slow down and be attentive to God all around us. Here are some biblical hints for Advent-uring:

1. Look for people. While we don’t want to stare at people, let’s look at people. Let’s slow down and appreciate people. Let’s not look away from people, image bearers of God.
2. Listen to people. Jesus is the master listener. Let’s work at talking less and listening more. (Yes, I, a preacher, am saying that.)
3. Leave room for God’s presence among us, not me but us. My favorite name of Jesus is Immanuel, God with us (not God with me, but God with us).

An acid test for these simple disciplines is when shopping this season. The cashier is tired of angry and impatient shoppers. The retail worker has been blistered with criticism from customers and unreasonable demands from supervisors. Let’s show these workers kindness and civility. When they ask, “Did you find what you were looking for?”, let’s not grunt but respond warmly. Let’s thank them and smile at them.

 

Advent living is attentive living. Advent living is advent-uring. Or advent-touring. It is journeying with wonder and attentiveness, with and reverence.

 

A short while ago Vietnam War veteran Stanley Stotlz died alone in Nebraska. The funeral director to whom his body was taken could not identify any relatives. Sensitively, he published a short obituary in The Omaha World-Herald, noting that this 73-year-old Army vet died alone. The obituary said the public was invited to the burial in the nearby national cemetery. Over 400 fellow veterans and civilians decided to attend his funeral and show their support. That is living watchfully and attentively.

I was reared in a faith tradition that was always trying to nail down exactly when Jesus would return. The thrust was not to be attentive to people, but to get out of this world asap. They wouldn’t have believed that some of us would be here in 2018. And here we are. Jesus has come; Jesus is coming every day in a million ways; Jesus will come again one day in glory. In the meantime, let’s slow down and be watchful and attentive. For Jesus is Immanuel; God with us now—here and now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[This sermon, here in shortened form, was delivered at Community of the Savior in Rochester, Nov. 18, 2018. The texts were 1 Samuel 1:1-20 and Mark 13:1-8.]

 

Birth pangs! “This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.” What is a man doing speaking of birth pangs? I think it belongs to women that have borne children to speak of birth pangs. And Jesus, a single man—what does he know of birth pangs? I guess men that care for and about women know a little about birth pangs. Male obstetricians. Some fathers that have stood by their wives during birth pangs. And someone who listens to women as Jesus does.

 

Now, Hannah desperately wants birth pangs. But they won’t come. She is married to a good man named Elkanah, but he also has another wife. It seems to me that God never ordained polygamy or plural marriage, but it happened rather frequently in Old Testament times. And it still does in parts of the world today. I suppose it usually had to do with producing a lot of children to serve the family business, like a farm, or populate a sparsely populated land or add numbers to a movement. But it was and is never good. In Old Testament stories of polygamy—and there are many—it invariably leads to strife and discord. And so it is that Elkanah’s other wife bears children and regularly reminds Hannah that Hannah doesn’t. They called it being barren and, while that is a stark word, the sting of wanting children and not being able to birth them was even a more bitter pill. Hannah is a barren woman and feels the sting daily. This is Hannah’s poverty: she is barren.

 

As 1 Samuel begins, the family is going to make sacrifices to the Lord and then having a harvest feast. It probably is the Feast of Tabernacles, which celebrates God’s faithfulness in the harvest, akin to our American Thanksgiving. This feast of fruitfulness simply re-enforces to Hannah that her womb is unfruitful. And the other wife keeps reminding Hannah that she is barren. She provokes Hannah year after year. It becomes an unbearable hurt.

 

In church life today, things like this can still happen. People, seemingly well-intentioned, can say to married couples without children, “When are you going to start a family? Have you considered adoption? Maybe have a glass of wine before you go to bed and let it relax you.” Ouch! Every married couple is a family. Every single adult is family. Every widow and widower is family. Everyone in the body of Christ is family. Jesus makes that clear. But we sometimes think of family in ways contrary to Christ’s understanding. And he never married or fathered children, but what a family is his.

 

Hannah knows the look, the whispered word in the fellowship hall, that reminds her she is barren. What does she do about it? The right thing. She takes it to God.

“She was deeply distressed and prayed to the Lord, and wept bitterly…. Eli thought she was drunk…. “How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? Put away your wine.” But Hannah answered, “No, my lord, I am a woman deeply troubled; I have drunk neither wine nor strong drink, but I have been pouring out my soul before the Lord.”

Her praying is intense and tenacious. There are times when we may bring some concern to God and simply lay it before God and walk away in complete trust and peace. Wonderful. There are other times when our praying will be like Hannah’s: intense and tenacious, filled with bitter and desperate tears. Both forms are heard by God; both are acceptable. In Luke 18 Jesus tells about a widow pleading for justice day and night until the frustrated judge gives her justice. Jesus holds her as another model for tenacious praying. Hannah prays with the active faith described in Hebrews 10: holding fast, provoking, approaching the throne of God’s grace with confidence that her cries are heard. Hannah prevails in persevering prayer. She is a woman of grace and grit, beautiful inside and out.

 

Our Bible was written in patriarchal times and many biblical narratives reflect that. But God has always had a better plan: male and female sharing God’s image and God’s work. We find it at the very beginning in Genesis 1 and, if we take off our patriarchal blinders, we find it everywhere in scripture. God has always been calling and using women and men to share in Christ’s body and labor together in God’s work. To all the names of women God used that we know, there are the thousands and millions whose names are not recorded. We are in their debt. Again and again, God used them to keep the salvation story alive.

 

The state of women’s leadership in the global Church today is mixed. About half of the great Church denies full leadership to women. That troubles me greatly. The founder and first general superintendent of Free Methodism, B. T. Roberts, the namesake of the college not far from here, was in favor of ordaining women, but didn’t see it take place in his lifetime. He wrote Ordaining Women: Biblical and Historical Insights in 1891. The impact of his writings eventually prevailed in Free Methodism, but long after he died.  In 1974 woman were finally ordained as presbyters/pastors, just 83 years later.

 

My life has been nurtured and influenced by amazing and strong women at every stage. My mother, who died two years ago just after her 101^st birthday, was a strong woman, filled with grace and grit. Her mother brought her to this country when my mother was a six-year old. Their border crossing of the Atlantic was dangerous. My grandmother was violently ill and did her best to hide it so she and her children could live in this land of welcome and opportunity. She made it. She never learned much English, but I have glorious memories of helping her make pasta in an Italian kitchen in this new land. She was an amazing woman, filled with grace and grit. God allowed me to marry a beautiful woman of grace and grit. She bore us two beautiful daughters, filled with grace and grit. (Whenever we had a dog it was a male, just to give a little balance.) Rachel’s mother was a pioneering pastor in the wild west in the 1930s, a gifted woman of grace and grit. My closest pastoral colleague worked alongside me for 25 years, a woman of grace and grit. My life journey and my faith journey have been formed and nurtured by amazing women of grace and grit. All these women were and are beautiful inside and out, filled with grace and grit. I am the richer for knowing all of them. Their fingerprints are indelibly imprinted on my soul.

 

The lectionary, daily and Sundays, has had me thinking of such women of late. I read of how God used Esther to save her people. I have read of Naomi and Ruth. They were not barren, but bereaved of their men. Naomi models trusting God even in bitter times and experiencing God’s mighty working through her Moabite daughter by marriage. Ruth, from Moab—a foreigner to Israel, and outsider!—is mentioned in Matthew 1 in the genealogy of Jesus. These are women of grace and grit. God has always been using such women to keep God’s story alive.

 

I mean no put down to my gender, though I love this nugget from Sojourner Truth. “Where did Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with him.”  In fact, there was a good man alongside Mary, named Joseph, a silent man who stood by Mary in challenging circumstances. The Apostle Paul concludes an often misunderstood passage about women and men: “Nevertheless, in the Lord woman is not independent of man or man independent of woman.  For just as woman came from man, so man comes through woman; but all things come from God.” (1 Corinthians 11:11-12) My life has also been nurtured and shaped by godly men, but not quite as much as by godly women.

 

God hears Hannah’s desperate cries, and in due time, she has her own birth pangs and births a son and names him Samuel. He becomes a key player in God’s salvation story, a consummate leader. He was born of a woman of grace and grit. That was a desperate time in Israel, with the mighty Philistines threatening them from without and the priest Eli’s two corrupt sons threatening Israel from within. God begins the rescue of Israel not with a mighty warrior, but with a barren woman, a woman of grace and grit. Hannah stands in a long line of graced and gritty women that take hold of their birthright and experience God’s favor and pleasure.

 

Birth pangs! “This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.” God in Christ is doing a whole new thing. Jesus us building a whole new Temple, not of cold stones but of warm believers with hearts pulsating with new life. Birth pangs signal new life on the way. Jesus is making everything new. Praise be to God in Christ. And thanks to women like Hannah.