Christmas Eve Sermon at First UMC East Greenbush

 

Luke 2:1-20, 12/24/25 “A Great Light”

          I’ve been thinking about Trick or Treating … wait … do I have the wrong holiday?  Actually, I have been thinking about when I took my son trick or treating and when it got dark, I reminded him that the way to tell which house you could go to was whether or not their front porch light was on. The light on meant you were welcome there and a light off meant, don’t go that way. But it isn’t just trick or treating, we use lights to signify welcome in a lot of different ways. If the vacancy sign is lit that means there is room at the hotel, if the lights are on at the store it means it is still open and a lit walkway says “welcome … here is the path.” A light in the dark says a lot. The bright beams breaking through the darkness to illuminate the path before you, the warm soft glow on a dark cold night to say “here is a place of comfort and care.”

 

          The reading from Isaiah talks about light: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light …” And then in the reading from Luke, we see that great light. It comes upon shepherds in the night. It says an angel comes and “the glory of the Lord shone around them.” The glory of the Lord is a light shining. And soon there is “a multitude of the heavenly host.” That’s a lot of light way out in those dark fields with those shepherds. It says the shepherds were “keeping watch over their flock by night” these are people who know the dangers that come in the darkness. These are people who know the darkness well. When the world sleeps, they remain awake, vigilant, waiting for dawn to reveal the safety of their flocks. This is where the glory of the Lord shines … around those watching for danger, those sitting in the dark. A warm and brilliant light shining welcome, here is the path, here is safety.

          What’s so amazing about this light is that it is like an illuminated “open” sign, showing that the door between heaven and earth is open. The light shines upon an opening into heaven, where God is poured out here onto earth. Later, Jesus will ascend back on that same path, and here we see the light is on, the heavens have opened and here is the way.

 

          Some people call these thin places. Those times, moments or locations where the veil between heaven and earth feels thin, or maybe even nonexistent. As a hospital chaplain, I am honored to be able to sit in these thin spaces with people. Sometimes when someone takes their last breath and then falls into the arms of God and sometimes when a new life takes their first breath in the arms of their mother.

          About once a week I make the rounds through the post-partum unit. Unlike most others at the hospital, the people I meet here are not sick, but rather standing at the edge of a brand new chapter of their lives. And it is beautiful, and joyful and amazing, but also … terrifying. When the angel comes to the shepherds it says they are “terrified” and the first thing the angel says is “do not be afraid.” These thin places, these in-breakings of the Holy Spirit can be terrifying. And I often see that on the faces of brand new parents. They just had an overwhelming experience and now are sitting there with a new life that wasn’t there before. They are figuring out feeding schedules and paperwork and phone calls right after this unbelievable life-changing event. I remember, after I had my first son, when people would say he was beautiful, I would widen my eyes and say “I know right!” Saying thank you felt strange as I held that little miracle, I was in awe of this new tiny person. It felt like a gift from God and something amazing to behold and not something I would take credit for.

          When I see all those tiny new lives in the post partum unit on the day of their birth, I feel like I am walking along a thin space. There is a light and a beauty that shines around their tender skin and wrinkled toes and I often find myself wiping a tear as I pray for them, it is a moving experience to be in that place.

 

          But it can also be a hard experience. As I go from room to room it is abundantly and starkly clear that not every baby gets the same starting point in life. Some start their lives with loving parents putting so much thought and care into getting everything just right for them- with a home stocked with fresh diapers, new onesies and photo frames just waiting to be filled with happy memories. But that isn’t the story for all of them. Some are born into different circumstances and that is hard to see.

 

          Jesus was one of those babies born into different circumstances. He was born to a young couple without a roof over their heads. He was born sharing space with stinky animals. Biblical scholar Luke Timothy Johnson writes, “However we construe the manger and the lodge and the wrapping bands put on the baby and the visit by shepherds, there is no doubt concerning Luke’s portrayal of the economic or social level of Jesus’ first companions … [the shepherds] are certainly among the lowest-esteemed laborers. Mary and Joseph, in turn, are transients … people who lack adequate shelter.” It’s quite the scene … a wild scene really … and entirely unexpected. Who would imagine that here, in these circumstances, God chooses to dwell with humanity? That here in this darkness, in these circumstances, comes a great light.

          The vacancy light shines through a bright star saying, “here is room,” even though the inn may be full, here we find abundance and a message of love shining bright enough for the whole world to bask in.

           I have this really clear memory from when I was little. We lived down the street from the high school and we were walking home after my older sister’s band concert. It was cold and snowy in northeast Ohio and I must have been no older than 8 years old and yet I can see it so vividly. There in the cold, dark ordinary night I looked up and saw the big bright multi-colored bulbs hanging on the front porch of our house and I remember feeling so warm inside. There was home and it was Christmas time, and the joy was intense and warm and filled my heart and the lights were so bright against the dark sky.

          I think of that every year at Christmas, that way in which a child’s heart can truly capture the joy of Christmas. The indescribable, warm and welcoming joy knowing that God is with us, God has come. Just as promised.

           This is the great light Isaiah spoke of.  The great light of God’s love shining here on earth to say, “here is the path, this is the way, you are welcome here” the same light that warmed the shepherds flows into the soft candlelight that will soon fill this space. A welcome light.

Wherever you are on your journey, whatever darkness you may find yourself in, see this light on, see this welcome and know that God is here, with a light that can never be extinguished. Merry Christmas.

Sermon from the Fourth Sunday of Advent, First UMC East Greenbush

 

Sermon from 12/21/25 Matthew 1:18-25

          It was a cold, dark winter’s night, the day was drawing to an end as clothes were traded for pajamas and the promise of sleep was near … and in that cozy stillness I heard these words, “mom, I need help with my math homework!” I took a deep breath, gently moved the cuddly dog from my lap and dove in to the great unknown … that is middle school math. My son had been absent so he missed the lesson. I looked at the worksheet and everything I ever knew seemed to run out of my mind. It looked nonsensical. I said “are you sure about this whole advanced math thing, maybe try regular math.” But there was no laugh from him, only the look of distress that comes when you are stuck. We started looking over the sample problems, reading the problem over and over again, trying different numbers in different places. I knew that somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain these lessons were buried from learning them years ago, but things have changed and the formulas the teacher used in the example looked completely unknown. As I sat there writing numbers and trying my best to tap into my inner middle-school student, my son said “I got it!” and he started spouting off numbers and writing quickly and then had a big smile. I looked at his work and nodded and said “oh, ok!” clearly not knowing what the heck he was talking about. But he really wanted me to stay with him in this, so he explained it a few times and eventually it kind of made sense. And man did I feel proud of myself. As I tucked him into bed he said “that math homework took SO long” and I said “yeah, but it was kind of fun” and he said “yeah, it was.”

          We got there. What started out as utter confusion eventually moved to trust as I watched his brain put the pieces together and then ended with enlightenment as we both felt so satisfied in having figured it out.

          This journey from confusion to trust to enlightenment is not one confined only to the complications of middle-school math. It is a familiar journey for anyone who has lived and breathed. And it is an ancient one, as we heard in the Gospel reading today.

         Today’s reading opens a door into the mind of Joseph. It starts with confusion. He was engaged to Mary. This meant that there was likely a ceremony of engagement after which she would stay living at her father’s house for what could have been a year or a few years and then he would come and take her to their new home together. And during this time of not living together, she becomes pregnant. Joseph is confused and wants to follow the rules but also does not want to publicly shame her, so he decides to quietly end things. But, as he is still thinking this over, one translation says “as he was considering this” [1] he has a dream. Imagine what this was like for Joseph. He was likely quite young and here he is dealing with this unexpected shock and trying to figure out what he will do. The stakes are high, the life of the woman he loves may be at stake, and yet, he wants to do what he believes to be right.

           It is in this state that Joseph has a dream. In the dream he sees an “angel of the Lord” who lays it out very clearly and directly: don’t be afraid, take her as your wife and name the baby Jesus. And that’s enough for Joseph. He has trust, complete and total trust, all confusion and contemplation is over and he does what the angel told him to do in the dream.

         It’s interesting if you think of this in the context of an origin story. In movies and comics, every hero has some sort of origin story that defines their life and their mission. For Batman, it was watching his parents get killed by a criminal as a young boy and vowing to avenge their deaths by devoting his life to fighting crime. For Superman, it was surviving the destruction of his home planet, getting adopted and discovering his superpowers. Spider-Man too has lost his parents and when he is bitten by a spider as a teenager he has to sort out his powers and his capabilities as a young man. All of these are very dramatic and heart breaking.

          And here we have the origin story of Jesus. Two young people with plans, thrust into a divine salvation story by appearances from an angel. And both of them, both Mary and Joseph quickly move from confusion to trust. The origin story of the life of Jesus begins with two confused people who decided to trust.

         Trust is a tricky thing. It can be easy like when you know and love someone who has proven themselves, or it can be really hard like when you are afraid and a relationship feels shaky. Trust can break your heart, but often we are forced into it. Every day we trust that the other people driving cars on the road will follow the laws. We trust that our bodies will do what they need to so we can keep going, we trust that the sun will rise and set, we trust that we will get a paycheck, the heat will work and the house will stay standing. And we have to see horrible stories on the news of frightened people fleeing and trust that we can still gather, send our kids to school and maintain hope in humanity. It can be hard.

          And yet, here we are, trusting each other with our prayers, our concerns, our hearts and our stories. Praying to God from the depths of our hearts and trusting that God hears our prayers. Daring to open our hearts in worship to beauty, to hope, to peace and to love, knowing that this world can break your heart.

          But this decision, this wild, bold, maybe foolish, vulnerable decision to trust … this is the origin story of our Savior. This trust is how God breaks into the world, takes on flesh and saves us. Matthew tells us that Jesus did not drop out of thin air, he did not triumphantly descend from the clouds on a throne, he did not fly in from a spaceship …. He was born of trust. God chose to work through human hearts, to quiet fears and invite trust. The origin story of the one we worship, the one we give our hearts to, involves a young couple holding onto a dream, trusting a vision.

          I wonder, where God is calling your heart to trust? Maybe to trust in God’s presence, the love of another, the possibility of peace or that word that we often keep trying to grab but keeps slipping through our fingers … hope.

          Remember, the story doesn’t end with a young couple trusting a vision. There is more to come. Joseph’s journey goes from confusion to trust to enlightenment. There is a star coming, a light to shine in the darkness, the angels are not done speaking. This story will go from one man’s dream, one women’s vision to enlightenment for the world and for ages to come. Trust opened the door for enlightenment.

 

          Our Advent journey is nearing its end. Maybe that brings nervousness, worry about unfinished shopping lists, unbaked cookies, unsent cards and unanswered emails to get to before everything closes. Or maybe it means a heart bursting with excitement like a child who thinks 4 days until Christmas is an impossibly long time to wait. Either way, I invite you to use these final days of Advent to look into your heart and see where God may be inviting you to trust. To reflect on how that word trust makes you feel, and gather the courage to keep the door open to God’s calling.

 

          It’s really all pretty wild. A young man finds out that the one he is engaged to is pregnant and in his confusion an angel tells him exactly what to do and then … he does it. He trusts. Mary too, trusts and together they embark on a journey. A journey that would result in a light like no one had ever seen. I wonder if after the confusion, the fear, the trust, the enlightenment, I wonder if Mary and Joseph looked at each other and said “that was wild … but it was also kind of fun.” Like my son and I did after he finished his math homework. And sure, middle-school math isn’t exactly ushering in the birth of Christ … but over and over again in life we are invited to open the door to trust and even though it may not go as we planned and our hearts may even get broken … God still enters that door, God still shows up … with a light that can never be extinguished so … stay tuned … because we are about to witness that light together and celebrate the next part of a wild story.

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[1][1] Harrington, Daniel. Sacra Pagina: Gospel of Matthew. Liturgical Press 2007. Pp. 34

Isaiah 11:1-10 “Waiting”

 

Sermon from First UMC East Greenbush 12/7/25 

          When I was 18 I got my own apartment. I was excited to live on my own, but it was lonelier than I expected. Preparing and eating dinner by myself was not as exciting as I had pictured. One of my dear friends who had moved away for college got me a plant. It was a tiny little thing in a tiny little pot. She assured me it was easy to take care of. I was grateful for another living thing in my apartment and enjoyed watching it grow. When I graduated college and moved to New Jersey for Seminary I took my plant with me, it had moved to a medium-sized pot and fit nicely in front of the window. After Seminary, when I got married and moved into the parsonage of my first church, it came along. It was much bigger and now in a much larger pot. It stood in front of the sliding glass door and kindly let out a slight droop to remind me when I had waited a bit too long to water it. It came along when I moved to my next church and eventually shared its pot with a bright plastic flower that my son stuck next to it. Eventually it became time for our next move, and this time we were moving from Ohio to Colorado. What would I do with my big plant in its big pot? It wouldn’t fit between the car seats and the movers said they didn’t take plants. I asked again and the movers said they would put it in the truck but since this was in January and the truck was not heated, they couldn’t guarantee it would make it.

 

When the truck arrived there was the plant and it was looking very sad. I tried my best to help it as it became more and more shriveled but eventually it cracked and fell and there was nothing I could do but put it in the compost. There the empty pot sat, for some reason I didn’t immediately clean the soil out of it. And after a few days or so, I saw something. Something small and green right in the spot where the roots were left. I excitedly said to my husband “a shoot from the stump!” (these are the kinds of references two clergy make with each other). And sure enough, new life emerged. There was still life in that pot, even after the death and decay, a fresh new sprout burst forth.

 

          A “shoot from the stump” is a phrase from the Isaiah reading that we read today. In order to fully understand it, we have to back up a bit and look at the verses before it. In Isaiah chapter 10 verse 34 it says, “He will hack down the thickets of the forest with an ax, and Lebanon with its majestic trees will fall.” This is referring to the dynasty of David. King David came from the line of Jesse. He was the much anticipated, much longed for king chosen by God. And now, that line of David was but a stump. A stump is a dead plant from which nothing can grow and represents what Biblical Scholar Walter Brueggemann calls the “deep failure of the Davidic dynasty.”[i] As Pastor Mary Beth shared in her sermon last week, Isaiah is writing during a time of increasing power and destruction by the Assyrian army and the decline of Israel. It was a scary and uncertain time marked by lack of faith, injustice, corruption and oppression. The days of David’s rule seemed but a long dead stump.

          And then … we get this passage today. A beautiful poem about hope and possibility. It starts with a shoot from a stump. Life out of what was dead. A seemingly impossible situation, new life from death. A new reality in which righteousness and faithfulness are the basis of rule. Where the poor and oppressed are cared for. The vulnerable protected. And where “The wolf shall live with the lamb; the leopard shall lie down with the kid; the calf and the lion will feed together, and a little child shall lead them.”

          Impossible ... You might say. A lion and a lamb together in peace? It goes against everything we know about the animal kingdom and animal instincts. Impossible … there is no way a little child could bring about a peace which has eluded wise and aged rulers for all time. Impossible … new life coming from a stump, from hopelessness and despair.

 

          How could this be? We are told in this poem that it is “the spirit of the Lord.” It says, “the spirit of the Lord shall rest on him.” Brueggemann says “The  Spirit of the Lord has the capacity to do what the world believes is impossible.” The lion and the lamb together would mean a world not dominated by threat and hostility. A world where the vulnerable are cared for. Where there is courage to trust. Where rage and violence, revenge and hatred give way to love and care, bridge-building and hope. Where safety, health and security are not only for those who can earn enough, inherit enough, perform enough, but for everyone. True peace … for even the vulnerable lambs. Can you imagine?

          Isaiah asks us to. Imagine what the Spirit of the Lord can do. What seems impossible. A child leading the way.

 

          For us Christians, we believe that Jesus is the one who comes. He comes from the line of Jesse, a shoot from the stump. One who rules with the Spirit of the Lord. Who cares for the least, the lost and the lonely and makes possible this impossible vision of a world ruled by love and peace.

          It would be a long, long, long time between these words of Isaiah and the birth of Christ. A long time of waiting.

          I hate waiting. My husband teases me that I would rather risk breaking my back to carry something heavy than wait for him to come help me. I am always the one in my family of four sitting in the car waiting for everyone else to get ready to go. And when I have to wait like in the long lines at Disney World, or for the thermometer on the turkey to pop or repair man to finally come or for even harder things like medical test results or word that a friend or family member struggling is ok or for pain to end … it’s agonizing. Waiting is hard. Sitting with uncertainty is hard. Trusting that everything will work out is hard.

 

          Eckhart Tolle writes, “Waiting is a state of mind. Basically it means that you want the future; you don’t want the present.” And if you think about it, it is true- the awareness that you are waiting is really a state of mind. We may be in agony waiting for the plane to arrive and board at the airport but then realize that even if we were at home we would be doing the same thing- sitting there staring at our phone. Waiting takes us out of the present moment and leaves us focused only on what will, could or might be. It leaves us building an imagined future in our minds rather than receiving what comes with openness.

 

          And … if you think about it … we are actually living in the long awaited present of those who have gone before us. We are their hopes, their anticipated futures, their dreams. We are living after Jesus has come, we know that God has made possible what was impossible. God has come, to be with us, to bring love, peace and hope.

 

          But the world is not perfect. We live in that space between the birth of Christ and the day when all shall be made well and Christ will come again. And we may find ourselves looking around at dashed hopes, cut down trees, dead stumps and despair.

 

          But Isaiah reminds us that the Spirit of the Lord has more in store. This Advent, let us wait with trust, knowing that God makes all things new. And that we can be the shoot, bringing all that we hope for into the world. Living lives with righteousness and faithfulness, bringing care to the lonely, bringing peace to those in fear and justice to the oppressed. We can be a people who believe in stumps, even when it looks like there is no life left in them.

 

          Before Thanksgiving, I was able to join the youth group as they went to Hawthorne Ridge and spent time with residents there. These young people spent their day off of school sitting and talking with people they didn’t know. They talked about what they are grateful for and listened as the residents told their stories of gratitude. They prayed together and made crafts and spent time in genuine connection. Young people leading the way with care and love. Bringing shoots of a future hoped for to others.

 

          But before I finish, I don’t want to leave you wondering … how is my plant today. The one I got when I was 18 that has traveled all over the country with me. Well, when it was time to make the trip to New York from Colorado, the movers wouldn’t take it. After packing two kids a dog and everything we needed for a 29-hour cross country drive into our Subaru, it didn’t fit in the car. So I gave it to my friend Tanya. When I moved to Colorado I knew I was going to be far from family and I prayed that I would make friends in that new place. Tanya is one of those friends. One of those friends who loves whole-heartedly and isn’t afraid to be the first to cry at beautiful moments. She attended my kids’ preschool graduations and sporting events and loved them as they grew. The kids often asked if they could sit with “Miss Tanya” in church.  She supported my volunteer projects and always showed up for us with flowers (she is a florist). She was one of the first people we told that we would be moving. And through her tears and broken heart she hugged us and meant it when she said she was happy for us. She was a shoot from the stump. When I moved to a new place where I knew no one and felt alone, she brought love, warmth and a new possibility of feeling at home. And so I am happy to know that my plant is there with her, in that place of love. It reminds me to always trust, that the Spirit of the Lord is bringing new life, and it’s worth waiting for.

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[i] Brueggemann, Walter. Isaiah 1-39. Westminster John Knox Press, 1998, pp 103.