A Baby Changes Everything

By The Very Rev. Sherry Crompton

December 24, 2008 - Christmas Eve

Read: Luke 2:1-14

Teenage girl, much too young
Unprepared for what’s to come
A baby changes everything

Not a ring
On her hand
All her dreams and all her plans
A baby changes everything
A baby changes everything

The man she loves she’s never touched
How will she Keep his trust
A baby changes everything
A baby changes everything

And she cries, oh she cries

She has to leave, go far away
Heaven knows she can’t stay
A baby changes everything

She can feel it’s coming soon
There’s no place, there’s no room
A baby changes everything
A baby changes everything

And she cries and she cries O she cries

Shepherds all gather round
Up above the star shines down
A baby changes everything

Choir of Angels say
Glory to the newborn king
A baby changes everything
A baby changes everything
everything, everything, everything
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah


My whole life is turned around
I was lost and now I’m found
A baby changes everything
A baby changes everything

(A Baby Changes Everything; Faith Hill Christmas Album 2008)

Those are the lyrics to a new song sung by Faith Hill on her new Christmas album (Joy to the World).

A Baby Changes Everything.

Tonight we celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. A baby who did indeed change the world! We are often faced with a warm, fuzzy, sweet picture of that night in a stable. But come with me as walk through Luke’s narrative and what must have been closer to reality for Mary and Joseph that dark and starry night: Fear.

For it really is a story that is full of fear, isn't it? From the moment of the annunciation to the Virgin Mary, who asked a logical question of her heavenly visitor—"How shall this be?" she asked—to the tense discussions about the possibility of a divorce on grounds of infidelity, to this desperate search for suitable lodging at the most vulnerable moment in a woman's life, the very moment of childbirth. The birth of Christ, from the outset, had been a very precarious thing. It was anything but smooth. Anything but reassuring. And nothing about it suggested that this was going to be safe. It was dangerous in many ways. It was a scary situation, one that required great faith in God on the part of all concerned.

Mary and Joseph, the way they look in picture books, in artwork: she’s so sweet and calm and young; he’s older, but also calm, strong, dependable and reassuring—they are the Mary and Joseph we want them to have been, but they are probably not the Mary and Joseph who really were. But that is good news. The birth of Christ is, in it’s human dimension, a profound story about trust in God in the face of terrible adversity: marginal people in an occupied country coping with a difficult and uncertain situation. There were no easy answers. Only now, after it is over, do we see reassurance in it. What they knew must have been fear. And yet, I would describe them as courageous people. They were courageous people, doing what they knew, deep down, was right, even in the face of fear.

It wasn’t just Mary and Joseph that were afraid, either. Tonight we hear of an angel appearing to the shepherds and they were “terrified”. The first words out of the angels lips are: “Do not be afraid”. And then the angel goes on. “I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people; to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child lying in a manger.” And more angels appear praising God. In spite of the shepherd’s fear and uncertainty, they went to find this baby that would be lying in a manger. The sign.

So, what does it mean to proclaim that Christ was born in a barn? What does that signify? What would it mean today if angels proclaimed a miraculous, holy birth and we were led to a homeless shelter or a truck stop? Here we are faced with Luke telling us that our Savior of the world, the Word incarnate, takes on human flesh in the most ordinary way. In the most ordinary way. And that is the good news. God dwells among us and within us in a powerful way. In the midst of trials and tribulations; difficult times; sad times; lonely times; fearful times; all times; there is One who understands. There is One who is born right smack in the middle of it.

"Ultimate power poured itself into our powerlessness. The source of life entered into a journey that would end in a death we all will face, each on our own particular cross. A group of simple men—and probably some women and children, too—awoke on a hillside and stared, terrified, at a visitor from another world with a message about this one. "Do not be afraid," was the message. "Tonight we begin the sanctification of all your sorrow, all your fear, every burden you bear. Tonight we begin a journey you can only begin in fear. And all your tomorrows will be lived in the palpable love of God." (Barbara Brown Taylor)

And so, tonight, we creep up to the manger at Bethlehem, peering over the edge, anxiously wondering what is born among us, and there we see, to our never-ending surprise and eternal delight, the Friend. "I know you and you know me," (Barth) we hear the little one say as we come face to face. His face is our face and the future is His—and so the hope is ours.

Time and again in our story, the One has come among us, into our darkness, to stand beside us. As Karl Barth said: "A true Christmas celebration is an event that penetrates our hearts and lives. It takes possession of us and does not relinquish us any more. We breathe freely and no longer gasp. We are permanently freed from unrest."

Amid the songs, the poetry, the visions, and stories of this day, may this strong word be yours:

Do not be afraid.
Shepherds all gather round
Up above the star shines down
A baby changes everything

Choir of Angels say
Glory to the newborn king
A baby changes everything
A baby changes everything
everything, everything, everything
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah

My whole life is turned around
I was lost and now I’m found
A baby changes everything
A baby changes everything

May Christ be born in you, over and over and over again! Amen.

I Accept Your Choice

By The Very Rev. Sherry Crompton

December 14, 2008

Read: John 1:6-8, 19-28

We have John the Baptist with us again this Sunday. John, a man sent from God to be a witness to the Light. John seemed pretty clear about who he was and who he was not. When he was under interrogation about just who he thought he was, he didn’t waver. He was clear about who he was not and as for who he was, he said. “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness. Make straight the way of the Lord, as the prophet Isaiah said.”

John was called to point the way to Christ. Not to be Christ, but to point the way to the Light, to Christ, so that all might be saved. There is a great lesson here, especially during Advent, a time of self-reflection.

Rather than asking questions of John, our role is to look at how we might be able to tell the story to our world today – to our friends and neighbors, to our family and strangers. John didn’t come to tell his story or to straighten out the theology of the priests and the Levites. He came to point toward Jesus as the answer to their questions, the one who could offer them eternal life.

When we realize that John the Baptist is merely a witness to Christ, it becomes clear that his role is our role. If the story of Jesus is to be told this year, it is up to us. We are the new “voice[s] in the wilderness” who are preparing the way for Christ. How receptive our world is to that message depends in large part upon the way we open doors and hearts and minds.

For the good news is that Jesus was born. Christ is here now. So, what portrait do we paint of God? Albert Schweitzer once wrote that “Jesus comes to us as One unknown, without a name, as of old, by the lake-side, he came to those men who knew him not. He speaks to us the same word: "Follow me!" and sets us to the tasks which He has for us. To those who obey, he reveals himself in the toils, the conflicts, the sufferings, through which they shall pass in his fellowship, and they shall learn in their own experience Who He Is. He comes to us as One Unknown."

In his book, Friedman’s Fables, Edwin Friedman tells this story.

Two men crossed paths on a foot bridge high above a raging river. One could see from a distance that the other had a rope coiled around his waist. As they got closer, the man with the rope began to uncoil the rope, and, when they met, he said, “Pardon me, would you be so kind as to hold the end of this rope for a moment?” It took the other man by surprise and, as any of us would have done, he took the end of the rope and held it in his hand. The other man said, “Thank you,” and then added, “Both hands, now. Be sure and hold on tight.” With that, he leaped over the side of the bridge.

The man standing on the bridge held on with both hands and braced himself for the sudden jerk of the rope. Sure enough, with all his might, he was able to keep the other man from plunging to his death. The question was what to do next? If he let go, the other man would surely die.

"Don’t let go," the man hanging by the rope shouted. “If you let go, I’ll be lost. My life is in your hands.” The man on the bridge tied the rope around his own waist to lessen the strain, then did everything he could think of to save the other man’s life. He tried to pull the man back to the bridge, but he was too heavy. He tried to coax the man to climb the rope, but he wouldn’t try. Finally, he came up with a solution. He told the man to coil the rope around his waist and so, gradually shorten the length until he was within reach of the handrail. But the other man wouldn’t cooperate. He refused even to try. Instead, he just repeated his plea, “Whatever you do, don’t let go!”

Well, not to leave you hanging – the man holding the rope came to a moment of truth: He could only do so much. And so, he said, "It’s up to you. You decide which way this will end. I will become the counterweight. You do the pulling and bring yourself up."

The other man complained all the more loudly, “You cannot mean what you say...I am your responsibility … Do not do this to me.”

The man on the bridge waited for the other man to do his part. Nothing happened. Finally, he said, “I accept your choice,” and let go of the rope.

(pp. 9-13)

Well, it’s a great story. It illustrates how we often get trapped into thinking that it’s up to us to do something about the mess other people have gotten themselves into and how, if we’re not careful, that fosters this Messianic complex we carry within us.

You see it all the time: Others put ropes in our hands – responsibilities at home, at work, at school, in the community to solve problems or clean up messes others have made. They tell us in so many ways, “We’re counting on you to help us here. Don’t let us down. You’re our only hope.”

I’m not saying we shouldn’t do our part, only that there comes a time when the most faithful thing you can do is let go of the rope.

It’s hard not to be the savior, if you think you can be the savior. And that’s the problem. As long we’re determined to rely on our own strength and our own wisdom and our own resources, we hold Christ at a distance.

Only as we recognize our dependence on him – a power greater than ourselves – and confess our need of his grace and love, do we truly experience him as the Lord and Savior of our lives.

In a sermon published in the The Christian Century, John Stendahl writes,

Messianic ambitions for ourselves and messianic expectations of others are not just the quaint delusions of people certified as mentally ill. They are found in us and around us as we seek too much from others or wish to be too much to them. In a song that is at once poignant and cruel, Bob Dylan wrote,

‘You say you’re looking for someone
who’s never weak but always strong
To protect you and defend you
whether you’re right or wrong,
Someone to open each and ev’ry door,
but it ain’t me, babe …
It ain’t me you’re looking for.’

Stendahl concludes:

We are not, any nor all of us, the Messiah. That position has already been filled. To let Jesus be our Christ, our anointed savior and rescuer, may still entail seeking to be engaged in his saving work and mission – of course it does – but it also commands us to humility, a letting go of our seducing desires either to rescue or to be rescued by others. We already have a Messiah, and he ain’t us.

(12/3/02, p. 17f)

Try this spiritual exercise: Take whatever is weighing heavily on your heart today and turn it over to God. It may be a problem at work or a conflict at home; it may be a situation you’re involved with at school or an issue you’re dealing with in the community as a volunteer. It may be an individual – a friend or loved one or member of your family you’re concerned about. Whatever burden you happen to be carrying at the moment, turn it over to God and say to yourself, “I am not the Messiah. I can only do so much. It’s not all up to me.”

If you’re sincere and you truly turn it over to the Lord, two things will happen: You’ll feel a great sense of relief, as the weight of unrealistic responsibility is lifted. And ironically, by entrusting the individual or the situation to God, you’ll feel a new sense of strength and hope, as the words of Paul ring true for you:
“I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me."

So, who are you? I pray that you are the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: Make straight the way of the Lord. Amen.

Mark Invites Us to Repent

By The Very Rev. Sherry Crompton

December 7, 2008

Read: Mark 1:1-8

“In the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God”. Isn’t it striking how Mark begins his gospel?

There are no angels appearing, no wise men from the East, no long list of geneology, no journey to the Inn; but an intriguing statement: “In the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God” and a strange messenger in the wilderness.

Mark announces this is a beginning, declares it will be good news, and makes it clear the good news has to do with Jesus.

And, the next thing we know, we’re not at a manger—we’re out in the wilderness. We’re out in the wilderness, and we’re listening to a stern, urgent, wild-eyed prophet, wearing the strange dress and eating the bizarre diet of the ancient prophet Elijah, and proclaiming that God’s about to do something new. There’s that voice in the wilderness, urging people to repent and be baptized, insisting that the Messiah is coming any day, and calling upon them to get ready for what God is doing!

Why does Mark begin the story there? In some way, Mark associates repentance with the beginning of the Good News. There’s something about spiritual preparation that is connected with the Good News about Jesus in Mark’s book. Repentance is a change of direction. We’re driving down the road and we suddenly become aware that we can’t read the road signs because we’re headed the wrong way on a one-way street. We face repentance-the possibility of a change of direction. We may decide that traffic is light, no police cars are in sight, or that the scene down this road is quite to our liking. We could respond that way. But we may squeal to a stop and whip the car around like we see in Changing Lanes and begin to drive with the flow of traffic going the same direction.

Mark’s repentance also invites us to a reorientation of our life, to a fresh start, to a metamorphosis of life. I like the way Eugene Peterson says: "Take your everyday, ordinary life-your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life-and place it before God as an offering...don’t become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead fix your attention on God. You’ll be changed from the inside out."

That is what Mark means by repentance-a change from the inside out. Repentance is a reorientation, the beginning of a life long metamorphosis into a Christ-follower. Mark is not scrooge who puts out Christmas cheer with joy-killing repentance. Rather, he offers us the possibility for changing our lives through confession and spiritual cleansing. Through repentance we draw near to God and receive healing from God’s hand. To see repentance as the starting of the gospel and the starting point of our lives is to understand Mark’s telling of the story.

The voice in the wilderness cries out, “Repent!”, and we think it’s hell. But, really, it’s an invitation to heaven. It’s an invitation to get on board with the wonderful, new thing God is doing in the world. It’s an invitation to prepare for the coming of Christ and, when he comes, to know the luxurious, lavish forgiveness he offers!

Noted preacher Fred Craddock likens it to “a third grader, trying so hard to finish his arithmetic test while there’s still time, and all the while the teacher is fussing, ‘Hurry up, children!’. When the third grader erases a mistake, making a big black mark and tearing the paper, he starts to cry. He’s convinced he’s failed, and then the teacher comes over, and the boy is terrified—and the teacher gives him a new sheet of paper and says, ‘It’s OK, why don’t you try again’!"

George Berdes tells this story about a life lesson:

She was about 8, with a smile like the sun and a herd of freckles. She was also a great teacher. I was much older but, as always, an avid learner. She taught me one of life’s most important lessons.

In some parlances that lesson is called “perseverance”. Broken down into its essential elements and in plain English, perseverance means confronting failure by taking a deep breath, gritting your teeth, squaring your shoulders, and trying again…and again…and then again and again…to get back up and do what’s worth doing.

For some, what’s worth doing may be climbing a mountain or surviving a personal tragedy. To others it means mastering a violin, learning to hit a home run, or get an “A” on a spelling test.

I had asked her what I thought was a simple question. What she gave me in reply was a profound answer steeped in the wisdom of the ages.

My question evolved naturally out of watching her graceful movements on a municipal ice skating rink. An Olympic figure skater she was not, at least not yet. But she glided across the ice with ease and self-confidence. One thing for sure, she stayed on her feet with a certain confidence, even aplomb. That was by stark contrast with the position I repeatedly took on skates at her age...plop on my prat.

And so it was with an admiration honed by long remembered envy that I asked her how she learned to skate so well. As I said, her answer was one of life’s great lessons. This is the way she put it: ‘Oh, just by getting up every time I fell’. With that she smiled and glided off to the far side of the rink. But with those simple words, the great teacher with the squeaky little voice had just taught a thunder-clapping truth.

We fall, we fail ourselves and others, we flunk the test, our violin still squawks and squeaks, and our home run has yet to be hit. But we get up every time we fall. And then we try again.

We disappoint ourselves. Worse yet, we fail a loved one who trusted us. No matter, we get up from that fall of frailty…and try again. We get up, no matter the hurt, we get up and try again.

Hoped for careers, hoped for loves, hoped for achievements, disappear as we fall on our rump. No matter we get up; hard as that may be…despondent though we be…we get up and try again—and then again, and still again.

In all that gritty, hard-nosed determined lifting of our butts off the ice what we eventually learn is that the beautiful thing about life is that it gives us a chance to begin over again..and again.

Yes, we may be weary from the effort and humiliated by the failures but – if we try- there will come that serene moment when we’ll know success."

“Repent!” cries that voice in the wilderness. “Why don’t you try again! Because God is doing something new! In Christ, God is doing something new. And what is that? Well, he’s coming to this earth. He’s coming! He’s coming with urgency, and determination, and fierce power, and terrible might!” Yes, Christ is coming—and when he comes, he intends to forgive your sins.

Do you hear that voice? Do you hear that voice, crying in the wilderness of this world? Prepare the way to your heart; for Christ is here and wants to find a home in your heart. Amen.