"therefore, be it resolved..."

Anna Blaedel
January 4, 2009
First UMC, Osage
Psalm 72:1-7, 10-14
Matthew 2:1-12

Today we celebrate Epiphany Sunday. We usher in the New Year, together. We continue the Christmas celebration, of welcoming God into our hearts and lives and world anew. We celebrate communion, and remember the promise that in eating together, far more than our bodies are fed.

Today I want to share two stories with you, each of them delivered to my e-mail inbox in the last week. One of them, sent by one of you.

Story One: A pastor installed hot air hand dryers in the rest rooms at her church. After two weeks, she took them out. When asked why, she confessed that they were working just fine. When she went into the bathroom, however, she saw a sign that read, “For a sample of this week’s sermon, push the button.”

Hot air. Wisely or not, I’m going to hope this sign wouldn’t appear in our bathrooms. So, what do sermons and New Year’s resolutions and proclamations of faith have in common? Far too often, there is too much hot air. Sermons and New Year’s resolutions—traditions. Can be a whoosh to fill the time, to mark the day, whether January 1 or Sunday after Sunday, because, well, we always do it that way.

“Therefore, be it resolved…” The language of stuffy committees, presumptuous decrees, of grandiose plans of perfection that slip slide away shortly after midnight, or by Monday morning if not Sunday afternoon…”Therefore, be it resolved…” and, or, the language of hopes, of desires, of intentions, to do it differently, to rethink and reimagine the way we respond and resist. Stopping long enough to let our heart’s desires find us, to try again, and again and again and again to…what? What intentions brought you here this morning?

To see god and trust that god sees us, to learn how to love each other and allow this love to permeate every fear, every insecurity, to build beloved community that helps us make meaning of our lives and see sacred signs and know god incarnate, and feel a little less alone, and resist the evils of destruction and fear and deadly, deadly, meaninglessness. What intentions did you name on New Years Eve? This year, like every year, I made my list. Hot air? Perhaps. A bit more? Wisely or not, I can only hope…

Story Two: A Jewish story, a midrash, tells of a rabbi who asked his disciples, “How do you know when the night is giving way and the morning is coming?” One disciple stood and said, “Teacher, won’t you know that night is fading when, through the dim light, you can see an animal and recognize whether it is a sheep or a dog?” The rabbi answered, “No.” “Rabbi,” asked another, “won’t you know that the dawn is coming when you can see clearly enough to distinguish whether a tree is a fig or an olive?” “No,” responded the teacher. “You’ll know that the night has passed when you can look at any human and discern that you are looking at a sister or a brother. Until you can see with that clarity, the night will always be with us.”

Epiphany Sunday. Epiphany, with Greek origins meaning to show, appear, reveal, make manifest. “Aha!” moments when we glimpse and get it. Discovering and rediscovering God among us. Recognizing our need for revelation, and then following and resisting and searching for some sign to appear, some wisdom to make manifest.

The wise ones we read about today had the benefit of knowing the sign they were to follow. And then, sensing danger, warned of destruction in a dream, they set out on a different journey. Their king, plotting destruction. Their wisdom, the only identifier. Their joy, the compass. Their wonder and awe, the guide. Their dreams, a means for discernment.

A dear friend of mine once found herself desperate for a sign. Feeling lost and confused and overwhelmed and unsure where to turn, who to ask, what to do, next. She knew she needed a sign, knew to utter this need in prayer. The wise ones in Matthew looked to the sky. She glanced down at the concrete, and saw a slip of paper. A fortune from a fortune cookie. “Trust your instincts,” it read. “You’re moving in the right direction.”

Have you ever actually tried to follow a star? To really walk towards it? The path is about as clear as knowing your instincts when confusion and fear set in, about as clear as learning how to trust them to move you in the right direction.

The wise men from Matthew, my dear friend in California, this pastor at this pulpit, I dare to say at least some of you—usually, we don’t know where we are going, and we don’t know what we will find along the way. We do know, we are told and called to remember, in scripture and story and community and dreams and deep hunches and slips of paper on sidewalks, that God goes with us, that we need to travel with each other, and that this journey is somehow sacred. The clarity we seek is less the ability to discern a sheep from a dog or a fig tree from an olive tree, and more the epiphany that we journey together. That we see the sacred signs God sends us when we are gathered in community, when we recognize each other, here, and in the far reaches of unfamiliar territory, as sisters and brothers.

The lectionary psalm we read and heard this morning is a royal psalm, read to mark a king’s birthday. Read, in Christian traditions, to mark the birth of Jesus, the Prince of Peace, the Anointed One, Emmanuel. In this psalm, we see a needy people, beginning again with desperate, deep hope. Hope for a more just leader, a king who orders the kingdom around justice and peace, who reverses and overturns the powerful patterns of violence and fear. A leader who defends the cause of the poor, delivers the needy, crushes oppression. Like rain falling on mown grass, and showers watering the earth—the yearning for this gentle, prophetic leader. A leader who will feed and nourish and enliven our needs, in body and soul. Help us cultivate instincts we can trust to move us in the right direction. Help us see clearly our connection, sisters and brothers, all.

Knowing their need, the people are crying out for one who will help those who have no helper, one who pays attention to the needs of the people, who can help us hope, yet again, that we can be redeemed from oppression and violence and fear. The wise ones, trusting their instincts, know they will not find this in King Herod. The magi knew the way back to Herod did not lead to life. They were wise, we are told, because they knew not to travel alone, wise because they knew moving into uncharted territory, with all the fear of the unfamiliar, was better than following the command of a corrupt king.

Our gospel reading begins, “In the time of King Herod.” The story is staged, centered around this ruler. In a world where time is measured by the ruler, in a place where the king (or prime minister, or pastor or priest or president) has upmost power and control… When the wise ones come to the king, they come not to pay him homage, but to inquire about the one they are longing to find. This frightens Herod. When power and domination are questioned and cracked open, world leaders, people in power, tend to get scared. So Herod gathers his people, his advisors, asks just what on earth is going on, and begins to form a plan to wipe out his competition.

Imagine if a world leader, if our president, summoned you. Asked something of you, commanded something of you, and your instincts, your deep whispers of wisdom, your dreams and prayers tell you the summons is not for good, the command will cause pain and destruction, will threaten the lives of another, will accentuate injustice and side with sorrow. I wonder… Would I, could I, say no? Listen to my heart and dreams? Ignore the loudest, clearest, most commanding voice, and dare to move instead into unfamiliar land? I’m afraid I’d come crawling back, too scared to resist, too used to following the commands and concerns of the powerful… Would you, could you, resist? Say no to Herod? To the king?

One of my resolutions, one of my intentions in this new year is to nurture the spiritual strength to resist when the rule or command does not lead to life. Cultivate the kind of instincts I can trust, that can carry me in the direction of love. Compassion. Connection. Care. For myself and for others.

To search for the clarity of wisdom not necessarily to distinguish one from another, dog from sheep, fig from olive, good from bad, but the clarity to recognize epiphany revealed, the “aha!” moments that make manifest our relation to each other, all of us, as sisters and brothers, and call us to care for this connection. And, I know I will fail again and again and again and again. And, I hope, that I will find the courage and strength to try again and again and again and again…to make this more than hot air.

This, I believe, is what the baby in Bethlehem is being born to teach us. This is what the psalmist cries for. This is what Herod is corrupting. This is what wise star gazers allow to guide their path.

This is our story to participate in and proclaim. Hopefully, to proclaim with more substance than mere hot air. Therefore, if you will, be it resolved: We journey, together, when its easy and when its not. We dare to dream. We resist rulers who ask us to be agents of injustice and fear and destruction and alienation. We follow a star, and search for signs, and travel on when we don’t know where we are going or how we are going to get there or what might find us on our way.

Come now, to the table. Receive this bread for the journey. Remember our connection, with God and with each other. Trust the instincts of our faith, a faith which calls us into life, into love, into justice and peace, to move us in the right direction. May it be more than hot air. May we feed, and be fed. May it be so… Amen.