Advent 2(C): The Word of God in the Wilderness

Advent 2(C): The Word of God in the Wilderness

Luke 3:1-6

By: The Rev. Andrew Hege

The word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness.

Just to be clear: this is no small, trivial act. From this moment of revelation emerges a prophetic ministry that sets all things in motion, proclaiming the time that is soon at hand, a mission of preparing the way for the One who is to come. Saint Luke’s detailed location of this event as a moment in time is much more than an obsessive attention to detail.

The specificity of the time and place defines the enormous significance of this occasion. It is not a moment to be overlooked, but a time and place worthy of note.

After all, the word of God coming to someone, to anyone, in the wilderness of all places, was no ordinary occurrence. There had been hundreds of years of silence. Generation after generation had been born, lived, and died since the people of God had been in the presence of a prophet, one who had received a word from on high.

John’s message was rooted in the words of his predecessor, the great prophet Isaiah. In the days of old, the prophet cried aloud to make ready and prepare the way of the Lord, to straighten the paths that had grown crooked and smooth that which had been made rough. All of this was to serve that single purpose – that “all flesh shall see the salvation of our God.”

The word of God came to John, and a prophet was in their midst. The message of God’s abiding and redeeming love was being made known anew.

Let’s be honest: in our own time, prophets are many. Their messages are even more numerous and varied. Silence is not common. Some of our prophets claim to speak a word from God, while others boldly claim a message that is all their own. Some shout loudly on street corners and across airwaves, while others seek a more subtle transmission. There is no shortage of prophets in our midst.

For us, followers of Jesus in this day and this time, the careful work of discernment is all the more challenging. Who and where are the prophets who truly speak a word from God?

This passage from Saint Luke’s Gospel issues an important clue into where we might best look: to the wilderness. The word of God came to John in the wilderness. God’s good news emerges on the fringes and at the margins, far from the seats of power and privilege. In the places that appear so bare and desolate, absent of the presence of anything that is holy, the prophetic word of the living God is made real.

Where are such wilderness prophets today? A few ideas…

Perhaps we need to go to a literal wilderness, to the desert Southwest of these United States, where families arrive at our nation’s border, day after day, in search of sanctuary. Fleeing violence and fear, in search of safety and peace, these children of God—men, women, and children—arrive with little more than the clothes they are wearing. From the wilderness of tents and detention centers, what word might they speak to us this Advent season?

Perhaps we need not venture far from home to find ourselves deep in the wilderness. In the neglected and overlooked neighborhood of our own city, the wilderness might look like the parking lot of the market with a ‘check cashing center.’ Inside, the individual who is struggling to make ends meet, agonizing over which bill can be paid this month, is the recipient of a loan that may never be repaid, bearing a rate of interest so high that it renders them enslaved. What word from God might emerge in just such a wilderness?

Perhaps we need only look at the wilderness of our own faith community to discover a fresh word in this season of anticipation and expectation. In the pew sits the mother whose family does not look like every other family, the forgotten widower who wonders if he has been noticed, the child who has been told she is not enough. The wilderness of experience, rather than location, is no less desolate, no less isolation. What word from the Holy One might they proclaim to us as we prepare to welcome the Christ child into our hearts and souls?

These are prophets, each and every one, testifying to the truth from the wildernesses that call to us, people of the Jesus Way, here and now.

To ask the question of where and who the prophets of our place and time might be emerging, we do well to remember that, in ancient days, the word of God appeared in the most unlikely of places, in the wilderness, to the man named John. In the wilderness of our own days, in this year, 2018, may a good word from God be heard anew, and may we have the grace and power to share it, that all shall see and hear and know the salvation of our God.

The Rev. Andrew J. Hege

The Rev. Andrew J. Hege serves as the Assistant to the Rector at The Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd in Lexington, Kentucky. Born and raised in Thomasville, North Carolina, he is a graduate of Montreat College, Wake Forest University School of Divinity, and Virginia Theological Seminary. Andrew is an ardent golfer, occasional runner, and an avid reader of historical fiction. Ordained a priest in January 2015, Andrew is married to Amanda Schroeder Hege.


Advent 1C: Same Old Story

Advent 1C: Same Old Story

Luke 21:25-36

By: Casey Cross

If you have eyes, ears, and/or any kind of awareness of your surroundings, you might be like me right now. Angry. Heartbroken. On the verge of hopelessness. What the heck is wrong with our country – the (not so) United States of America? What the heck is wrong with our world? How have we grown so far from simple acts of stewardship and care for our earth and neighbor? Why are we stuck arguing over lawful rights versus human rights? You know what makes it feel worse? THIS IS NOTHING NEW. Humans seem to be really good at being awful to each other. You know how I know that? Because in today’s text, Jesus is talking about the same stuff thousands of years ago.

In some ways, this text almost makes sense. I mean, I’m writing this with Halloween only a few days away. Grappling with our present racist-misogynist-socio-economic-political situation seems an apt way to experience a serious House of Horrors. Only this isn’t something we can walk away from with a shuddering laugh, this is our real life.

I can also see this text making sense in another way. Jesus is in the last days of his life, stirring stuff up and preaching truth to power. In context, we would be reading this passage with sunglasses to shade us from the gleam of impending resurrection – Easter is coming. Yeah, we know bad stuff is going to happen, but Easter will too.

However, neither of those reasons really fit for now and they aren’t meant to. This passage is not for Holy Week, but for the first Sunday of Advent. Remember? Advent? The time when we get all excited for Christmas and sparkly decorations and family (maybe) and good food and PRESENTS… and… Oh yeah! Cute baby Jesus is born too.


By entering Advent with Jesus who is entering his last days in Jerusalem, we get to sit with his words in a new way. We get to read these words with honest eyes that aren’t shaded by anything other than the crappy stuff happening in our lives that we brought with us as we read the text.

Oh. And maybe that’s the point. The crappy stuff doesn’t change. Humans need a lot of help. But this is when the Son of Man appears. (Jeez. Do you know how many times Jesus refers to himself as the Son of Man? Yeah, it’s his favorite way to speak in the first person.) There will be signs… distress… fear and foreboding… No, this isn’t about the so-called “end times.” This is about today. This moment. All is not lost. When we are the most distressed, the kingdom of God draws near.

Jesus speaks to his listeners then as he speaks to us today. Be aware, on guard, expectant. Do not let the shock-and-awe horror show of the 24/7 news cycle weigh us down into the pit of despair where all we can count on is immediate gratification and addictive coping mechanisms. Stand. Stand up and raise your heads with faith in the words of Jesus that will never pass away. Stand firm with faith in the ever-lasting, redemptive love of our Savior who chose to be with us in the worst of times, as a vulnerable, naked, poor baby. Jesus doesn’t promise an escape from the pain, fear, and awfulness of the world. Jesus promises to live through it, with us. We aren’t in this alone. God is with us, Emmanuel.

This is the true challenge of faith. Can we stand to face the injustices and pain of the world? Can we respond with faithfulness, loving God, self, and neighbor as Jesus taught us, rather than freeze in fear?

The secondary challenge of faith is remembering that it does not belong to a single one of us, but to all of us – the Body of Christ. This faith is ours. We are not alone because we stand together, bound by our faith, called by our God to be caretakers of our world and each other. We can cry, we can lament, we can fear. These are our human, God-given emotions. God also gave us the capacity to act in response. So as we cry out, let us stand together and act out the ways Jesus taught us to live.

Here are just two responses to distressful, horrific times. While these may or may not be explicitly about faith, I find that they exemplify the gifts of faith in action. Just as humans are good at being awful to each other, we are even better at lifting each other up.

The first example comes from Michael Moore, written in February of 2017.

This morning I have been pondering a nearly forgotten lesson I learned in high school music. Sometimes in band or choir, music requires players or singers to hold a note longer than they actually can hold a note. In those cases, we were taught to mindfully stagger when we took a breath so the sound appeared uninterrupted. Everyone got to breathe, and the music stayed strong and vibrant. Yesterday, I read an article that suggested the administration’s litany of bad executive orders (more expected on LGBTQ next week) is a way of giving us “protest fatigue” – we will literally lose our will to continue the fight in the face of the onslaught of negative action. Let’s remember MUSIC. Take a breath. The rest of the chorus will sing. The rest of the band will play. Rejoin so others can breathe. Together, we can sustain a very long, beautiful song for a very, very long time. You don’t have to do it all, but you must add your voice to the song.

The second example is entitled, “Inscription of Hope” by Z. Randall Stroope. It was based on words found scrawled on a cellar wall by Jews hiding from the Nazis in Cologne, Germany during the second World War.

I believe in the sun
even when it is not shining
And I believe in love
even when there’s no one there
And I believe in God
even when he is silent
I believe through any trial there is always a way.
But sometimes in this suffering and hopeless despair
My heart cries for shelter
and to know someone’s there
But a voice rises within me saying “hold on my child”
I’ll give you strength
I’ll give you hope
Just stay a little while
May there someday be sunshine
May there someday be happiness
May there someday be love
May there someday be peace.


Casey Cross

Casey Cross serves as Young Disciples Director at Hope Lutheran Church in Eagle, Idaho. You can find her singing along to Spotify, reading books, listening to books, writing stuff, laughing a lot, walking her dog, cooking with her husband, and loving life in Idaho. If you liked this, you can check out more of her writing at

Advent 4(B): Everyday Annunciations

Advent 4(B): Everyday Annunciations

Luke 1:26-38

The Rev. Chana Tetzlaff

Several years ago I came across Denise Levertov’s stunning poem, Annunciation. You can read the full poem here. Her portrayal of Mary struck a deep chord in me, mostly because the vision of Mary that I was raised with was very different. In the circles I grew up in, Mary’s name was synonymous with the “ideal woman”—one who was soft-spoken, submissive, meek. In all the Sunday school lessons on the Nativity or studies about women of the Bible, never did I resonate with Mary as a model for my own womanhood, perhaps because I tend to be headstrong, opinionated, independent. Far from the “ideal,” I had little hope of ever being like Mary. Meek obedience wasn’t for me.

But to think of Mary as a model of “unparalleled courage” is far more intriguing. There really was nothing special about Mary, nothing to mark her as particularly worthy of God’s notice or favor. In fact, she was rather ordinary—a young girl about to be married to a mere carpenter, living in an insignificant town in a backwater province. Nothing about her life suggested that she would play an integral role in God’s plan for salvation. Yet Mary’s very ordinariness, rather than being a discouragement, is encouraging. Luke’s Gospel is distinct in its insistence that God invites ordinary people to do extraordinary things. Few people can live up to an “ideal,” but everyone can make a choice. Mary’s courage, her choice to say yes to God’s call, opened her to a life utterly illumined by God’s grace.

God’s grace in Mary’s life was a strange kind of blessing. Gabriel greets her as “highly favored” and yet, by our standards, her life is anything but. None of the goals we associate with favor—namely, social stature and wealth—came her way. Instead, she faced shame, dishonor, and public disgrace as she bore a child out of wedlock (Mt. 1:19). As a child, Simeon warns her that Jesus will bring judgment and division, and that a sword will pierce her own soul, too—she too will know the pain of rejection and division (Lk. 2:34-35). She will be forced to flee her home and live as a refugee (Mt. 2:13-23). She bears the gossip and stigma of speculations about Jesus’s mental sanity as he begins his ministry (Mk. 3:21). Ultimately, she will see her son executed as a criminal (Jn. 19). But, as R. Alan Culpepper so aptly reminds us, “acceptability, prosperity, and comfort have never been the essence of God’s blessing.” Were they so, Mary may have despaired. Her life was not marked by these things. The promise of the great king to come did not turn out as Mary may have initially expected. But over and over again we see the same courage that marked her first “yes” as she steadfastly faces disruption, discouragement, and pain throughout her life. She trusts in God’s promise. Her obedience stems from that trust, and her blessing came from the fellowship shared with God as a partner in God’s mission of redemption.

Levertov’s question makes me wonder: Aren’t there annunciations of one sort or another in most lives? Moments when roads of light and storm open from darkness in a man or woman? Moments when God invites us to partner in God’s mission of redemption, to partner in building up God’s kingdom? The poet suggests that more often those moments are turned away from in dread, in a wave of weakness, in despair and with relief. Ordinary lives continue. But I wonder: is ordinary life not the place where we see the greatest courage at work?

I think of the people who embody the courage of Mary, who embody the hope and trust in God’s promise of redemption despite the everyday suffering of life that would seem to belay that promise. I think of the survivor of sexual assault who refuses to give in to despair at the horror she has lived through and instead asks what she can do to minister to others. I think of the young adult who lives her days lobbying for refugee relief and support, despite overwhelming odds against her cause. I think of the man who lost his job, ended up on the streets, wound up in prison, and as a last ditch effort went to a nonprofit hiring agency where he discovered ordinary people who reminded him that he was valuable, a person of great worth, and how he now works every day to bring the same hope to others in the situation he found himself in. I think of the wives, husbands, sons, and daughters who care every day for loved ones experiencing illness and disease, for whom there is no cure in sight, who give the gift of dignity at the end of life. I think of the social workers, and teachers, and guardians ad litem who give their time, effort, and energy to care and advocate for children who have no one who cares for them. I think of all those who offer their time and ability to take care of the “least of these.” I think of the people in our congregations who are willing to risk entering into relationship with someone who is completely unlike them, in order to share the love of God. I think of ordinary people who are willing to obey God’s claim on their lives, who say yes to the seemingly impossible, who open themselves to a life utterly illumined and undergirded by God’s own grace.

There are annunciations of one sort or another in most lives. The grace of God, and the ability to partner with God, is offered to us in everyday moments, in everyday situations. Like Mary, we are each offered the choice integral to humanness. May we be as courageous as Mary in our response to God’s call: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”


The Rev. Chana Tetzlaff

The Rev. Chana Tetzlaff is Priest-in-Charge of Holy Cross Episcopal Church in Wilmington, North Carolina. Her greatest joy as a priest is walking with people who seek and follow Christ in deep relationship with each other. Chana believes that God’s grace is extended to all, and that nothing is impossible when we truly seek and attend to God’s call to us! In her spare time, Chana can be found dancing Lindy Hop and teaching basic swing, enjoying conversation and caffeine at a coffee house, or exploring local attractions and foodie hangouts. Chana, her husband, TJ, and their two dogs, Molly and Momo, live in Wilmington.

Advent 3(B): Something to Rejoice About

Advent 3(B): Something to Rejoice About

John 1:6-8; 19-28

By: The Rev. Leah Lyman Waldron

Writing this just after Halloween, I can’t help but think that John the Baptist is the original David S. Pumpkins: you feel like you should know who he is and why he’s here, but, along with the Pharisees, you’re kind of in the weeds on John T. Baptist. Is he the Messiah? No. Is he Elijah? Nah. Is he some kind of prophet you just can’t place…? Nope. He’s his own thing.

Indeed, John denies being a prophet, but as a hermit living in the wilderness (v. 23) who embraced an ascetic lifestyle and was sent by God (v. 6), he bears the marks of archetypical prophethood. If you look like a prophet, sound like a prophet, and smell like a prophet (the camel’s hair get up mentioned in Mark had to be a little rank)…. you’re a prophet.

So why does John deny it? Why is he so evasive, especially given that this is the gospel most explicit about his successor’s identity? And why are the Pharisees sending a committee of priests and Levites to vet this guy?

Prophets in ancient Judaism had great importance; as the mouthpiece of God, much attention was focused on them and their message (often times to their detriment; remember Elijah running for his life?). John, of course, wanted the attention focused on Jesus.

But I wonder whether he might also have realized that Jesus was going to break the mold; that he was announcing not just another mouthpiece delivering messages from a higher power, but rather the Messiah (3:28), the Son of God (1:34) who embodies divine love and grace in his very person. God’s new way of being in the world wasn’t going to be like anything the Pharisees had expected; refusing to play into their preconceived categories, as Jesus would later repeatedly do, might have been John’s way of signaling that this was a whole different ballgame.

Prophets also challenged those in power by condemning the way political and religious leaders and the people in their charge were behaving. The Pharisees’ questioning of John shows the institutional elite trying to get a handle on this outsider whose following threatened their authority. Though we don’t hear much about its contents in this gospel, John’s message must have resonated with people; they flocked from the city to be baptized by him.
Speaking of which, let’s talk about baptism. In ancient Judaism, tvilah – immersion in naturally sourced water for purification purposes – was quite common, particularly after coming into contact with a dead body, blood, or other uncleanliness; it was also used when someone converted to Judaism. In both cases, it indicated that the one who had been immersed could now participate fully in the life of the faith community.

There’s lots of good symbolism here – spiritual cleansing, new beginnings, etc. – that fits the synoptic gospel accounts describing John as proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. But in this gospel, John has a different agenda: he is baptizing “that [Jesus] might be revealed to Israel.” (1:31) Baptism, then, is no holy rite focused on ritual purification, but rather a spiritual version of  “build it and they” – or rather he – “will come.”

This approach is emphasized in verse 33, where we hear echoes of the prophet Samuel passing in front of each of Jesse’s sons to discern whom he should anoint as king. John, too, is looking for divine confirmation: “‘He on whom you see the Spirit descend and remain is the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.’” Jesus is the fruit of that same tree of Jesse – the son of David; the ultimate Anointed One.

Perhaps surprisingly, John continues baptizing even after Jesus has begun his own baptismal ministry. (3:22) But when his disciples confront him about it, John uses it as another opportunity to clarify that Jesus is the star attraction, that Jesus “must increase” while John “must decrease.” (3:30)

Later, John is described essentially as the best man at Jesus’ wedding to Israel. (3:29) We’ve all heard a best man focus his toast a little too much on himself while everyone awkwardly waits for it to be over; but not on John the Baptist’s watch! Everything John says and does turns the spotlight on Jesus.

To wit, there’s the bit of prologue included in today’s lectionary passage: John “came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.” (1:7-8)

This is, of course, the gospel of John’s underlying message: everything points to Jesus. The gospel writer’s main concern is to convince us that Jesus is indeed the Son of God, and to help us begin to apprehend the mystical, cosmic significance of that role.

Even so, I hope John’s motive for baptizing struck you as odd.

Odd because we are used to experiencing baptism as a moment centered on the believer: it’s their official entrance into the body of the church, when they receive fully the grace and new life God has bestowed on everyone who believes. All eyes are on the one being baptized: the name of the baptized person, inscribed in large font, is the focal point of the certificate we sign, and we hold a celebratory reception, complete with flowers and personalized cake commemorating the occasion.

But what if baptism looked more in line with John the Baptist’s M.O.: baptism that points not to us, but to Jesus?

I have a rather higher anthropology-to-christology ratio than this proposition suggests. Yet the idea of baptism not as an event that glorifies us, but rather as a sort of spiritual dragnet meant to help us find the Messiah fits perfectly with Advent. It is, after all, the liturgical season during which all signs point to Jesus.
If you’re inclined to preach a sermon about keeping Christ in Christmas, here’s your entry point. But we can go broader than that – and deeper. What does it mean to recognize that we’re not the light, but that we’re meant to witness to it? How do we keep from being the self-centered best man at a party that’s not about us? How do we avoid the pull to perform; to enjoy accolades more than service; to be concerned with optics and success more than substance; to center ourselves around our own agendas rather than God’s inbreaking presence? We as humans (and particularly as clergy) all face these temptations.

In chapter three, John’s disciples want to know what’s up with this Jesus guy horning in on John’s territory. John replies with the bridegroom imagery, which, despite my earlier comment about awkward toasts, is deeply moving: “The friend of the bridegroom, who stands and hears him, rejoices greatly at the bridegroom’s voice. For this reason my joy has been fulfilled.” (3:29)

The main event, the One whose presence thrills us with the kind of profound happiness we feel at seeing our best friend happily married, has arrived. For a moment, we forget our own agendas and lose ourselves in joy. As we celebrate Gaudete Sunday, that is true reason to rejoice.

Leah headshot PACC
The Rev. Leah Lyman Waldron

The Rev. Leah Lyman Waldron is the pastor at Park Avenue Congregational Church UCC in Arlington, Massachusetts. A self-proclaimed thriftvangelist, her ideal day involves an outdoor run; some good thrift shopping; a dance party with her 3-year-old; and cooking something stupidly easy and delicious for dinner with her husband, Chris.

Advent 2(B): A Wierdo Appears in the Desert

A Weirdo Appears in the Desert

Mark 1:1-8

By: Jerrod McCormack

I was a pastor in the United Methodist Church for many years. In all of those years I can’t begin to tell you how many times this passage or one very similar to it popped up in the lectionary. Suffice it to say that I have preached this text so many times that the first question that came to my mind was, “how in the world will I find some new word to share from this?” One of the things that stood out to me while I was reflecting on this passage is the ring of the prophetic voice in the midst of God’s people.

There’s no time for pleasantries or background in Mark’s characteristic style. He just jumps right in with a simple one sentence introduction: “This is the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” (Mark 1:1) Mark admits that the purpose of his relating these stories is so that we too might know the good news of Jesus Christ whom Mark is convinced is the Son of God… But then the first story Mark tells us isn’t specifically about Jesus. It’s about a John the Baptist, the messenger who prepares the way for the messiah.

John the Baptist is a very interesting character in the narrative of Jesus’s ministry. Mostly because John is a total weirdo. We meet John in the wilderness wearing clothes made of camels hair and eating locusts and wild honey. He is an ascetic. That means that he practices a radical level of self-discipline and denial. That has led some scholars to wonder whether he belonged to an ancient community of religious, i.e. monastics. His practice of monk-like rigor makes him even more of a weirdo in our day and culture. Self-discipline and denial are not popular Google searches. The rigorous and devout life that John leads also brings this gospel into connection with the ancient prophets of Israel.

Like those prophets of old, John calls the people to return to the Lord by receiving a “baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” (Mark 1:4) And we are told that people came from all around the surrounding region to be baptized and to confess their sins. The prophetic role has often been associated with calling people to return to God. I am reminded of the many voices that called Israel back from idolatry and waywardness to return to the God their ancestors knew. The prophet Isaiah speaks to the wayward Israelites saying,

“Hear, O heavens, and listen, O earth;

for the Lord has spoken:

I reared children and brought them up,

but they have rebelled against me.

The ox knows its owner,

and the donkey its master’s crib;

but Israel does not know,

my people do not understand.” (Isaiah 1:2-3)

Moses, Elijah, and Isaiah have all lived into the prophetic role and have called God’s people back to relationship with God. The prophetic role is one that speaks truth to a people who have strayed from the ways of God or from their responsibilities in the world. It is almost impossible to separate the prophetic call to repentance from the call to a more just, caring, and whole society because our inner spiritual lives shape the way we interact with the world and the way we interact with the world shapes our inner spiritual lives. Jesus says, “Listen to me, all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.” (Mark 7:14-15) It is from the overflow of God’s goodness in our hearts that we construct this new kingdom of Jesus in the world.

John appears in the desert calling the people of the day and us as well to receive the baptism of repentance that we might live into a new vision of what God is doing in the present age. John takes a remarkably humble position as he describes the one who is coming. He says, “The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals. I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.” John points us towards Jesus as the one who comes after who will baptize his followers not with water but with the Holy Spirit and it points us towards the second role of the prophet and that is to proclaim a truth that the world has yet to realize.

Walter Brueggemann calls this the Prophetic Imagination. In his book bearing the same title he says, “The alternative consciousness is to be nurtured on the one hand, [and] serves to criticize in dismantling the dominant consciousness…[and] to live in fervent anticipation of the newness that God has promised and will surely give.” Brueggemann further acknowledges that the role of the prophetic imagination is to energize the community with the promise of a new vision and a new place to which God’s people can move.[1]  Moving towards a new vision is exactly what Advent is all about. It is about acknowledging all that God has done before, accepting our waywardness, and yearning to move boldly into the new kingdom that comes to light in Jesus’s life, death, resurrection, and his coming again.

Jesus gives us a common vision into which both liberal and conservative can move together. Our tendency to sometimes forget that for the sake of our own ideology. We are all working towards that day when, “But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.” (Amos 5:24) We are invited to be the prophetic voice to the world decrying that which is wrong, acknowledging and uplifting that which is good and right and true. Just as John prepared the way of the Lord we too get to participate in preparing the world to receive the messiah once again. We do it every day in our interactions with each other and the world. Advent invites us to participate in the prophetic task and speak truth to power.

[1] Walter Brueggemann. Prophetic Imagination: Revised Edition (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001).

Jerrod McCormack

Jerrod McCormack is the Youth Leader at St. Peter’s Anglican Church in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. He is also a Spiritual Care Provider for the Alberta Health Services. He earned an A.Sc. in Pre-Medical Studies from Hiwassee College in Madisonville, Tennessee, a B.Sc. in Biology from Tennessee Wesleyan College, Athens, Tennessee, and a Master of Divinity from Asbury Theological Seminary, Wilmore, Kentucky. He is married to Ali and in their spare time they love to drive through the rockies and stop for random photo opportunities.

Advent 1(B): Waking Up to Those Around Us

Advent 1(B): Waking Up to Those Around Us

Mark 13:24-37

By: The Rev. Andrew J. Hege


Confession: I really like my sleep.

It’s true. I am an early to bed kind of person and can even appreciate a short nap in the afternoon, every now and then. I really like my sleep. So, this passage from Mark’s Gospel appointed for the First Sunday of Advent is difficult for me.

“Keep awake,” Jesus says. Not once, but twice. Keep awake! Stay alert! For you do not know when the master of the house will come and you do not want to be found asleep.

Events surrounding sleep figure prominently in the Jesus story. In Matthew’s telling of the gospel, Joseph experiences an angelic visitation in his sleep, foretelling the birth of the one with whom his wife to be was pregnant and by what name the child should be called.

When a man named Jairus approaches Jesus to tell him of his daughter who is ill and at the point of death, Jesus is delayed in arriving at the home by the woman who touched the fringe of his cloak. When Jesus does arrive, the girl is reported to be dead; but he responds to the cries of lament, “The child is not dead but sleeping.” And she is raised to life.

In the garden of agony, on the night of betrayal, Jesus found his disciples drifting off to sleep, not once, not twice, but three times, while he prayed in distress over what lay ahead.  To Simon Peter and the others he says, “Could you not keep awake one hour?” No, they could not.

Wakefulness and sleepiness, dozing off and remaining alert—these themes appear over and over again in the Gospel story, in each of the four accounts.

On this first Sunday of Advent, the first day of the Church year, we read this passage from Mark’s Gospel that takes place near an end, not at the beginning. We begin at the end.  Before Jesus is betrayed, handed over to suffering and death, he is in Jerusalem, around the Temple. No doubt, Jesus is teaching his disciples those most important truths, that which he wishes them to know most when he is longer with them.

In teaching about the hope of a hope-filled and glorious coming, with angels sent out to gather the faithful from every corner of creation, to the ends of the earth, Jesus issues a firm admonition: remain attentive. One does not know when this immense moment will arrive and does not want to be caught unaware, unprepared. So, keep awake, stay alert, remain vigilant.

So often I have heard this passage offered as a call to repentance and prayer, lest the hour of such a return arrive and one be found with unconfessed sin or an unprepared heart.  Seeking forgiveness and drawing nearer to God in petition and praise are rooted in the Christian tradition, to be sure. But, I wonder if there might be more for us to consider in this passage?

What might remaining awake and staying alert look like in our various contexts?

A few weeks ago, I sat in a circle of colleagues and pondered this question. There are a group of clergy in Lexington, Kentucky whose congregations band together to organize for just solutions to problems in our community.

Together we talked about the propensity toward dozing off as the people of God, not in our prayers or in our devotion to God, but in our concern for all God’s people. Keeping awake and remaining alert requires us, each as individuals and collectively as a community of faith, to see the needs of the world around us. And, even more, these needs, varied and great, call us as a people to not doze off.

In each of our communities, wherever we live, there are enormous challenges: inadequate access to direly needed healthcare, students who are not receiving the education they need because the myth of scarcity has proclaimed there are not enough resources, and lives ripped apart by epidemic of opioid addiction. There is hunger and homelessness.

At every turn, there is a world wondering, is anyone awake? Individuals cry aloud. Can anyone feel the burden that weighs me down? Does anyone see? Will anyone respond?

On this first Sunday in the season of Advent, as the church turns the page on a new year, as our eyes begin to turn toward the Christmas miracle, the invitation on this day, in this Gospel reading, is to wake up. When we, as the people of God, are awake, we are reminded that this Jesus whose coming we anticipate at Christmas and in the culmination of time is the One who entered into the fullness of our humanity, who knows the suffering of the human condition, and the weight of its pain.

He is the One who calls us to wake up, to be alert, not only in our hearts and souls, but in the world around us, where the cries for healing and wholeness have not quieted. Rather, they are often overlooked, cast aside, too easily forgotten.

This new season of Advent invites us into days of preparation, for Christ who comes as the Bethlehem baby and as great Redeemer of all creation. Might these days stir us to wake up from sleep and remain alert to the needs of the world around us?

The Rev. Andrew J. Hege

The Reverend Andrew J. Hege serves as the Assistant to the Rector at The Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd in Lexington, Kentucky.   Born and raised in Thomasville, North Carolina, he is a graduate of Montreat College, Wake Forest University School of Divinity, and Virginia Theological Seminary. Andrew is an ardent golfer, occasional runner, and an avid reader of historical fiction. Ordained a priest in January 2015, Andrew is married to Amanda Schroeder Hege.


Advent 4A: Remembering God’s Promise

Advent 4A: Remembering God’s Promise

Matthew 1:18-25

By: The Rev. Chana Tetzlaff

The circumstances of his impending marriage were significantly less than ideal. The year they got betrothed, Joseph discovered that she was pregnant. How? By whom? Who could possibly believe Mary’s preposterous claim that the “Holy Spirit” impregnated her? How dumb did she think he was?

How devastated Joseph must have been as he wrestled with his hurt and anger over what he assumed was her unfaithfulness, and the betrayal of all his hopes and dreams for marriage. And yet, he attempts to do “the honorable thing.” He plans to end the engagement quietly, so as not to draw negative attention to her, but certainly also not to his own embarrassment. How to tell to family and friends why the engagement was suddenly off? How does one explain, after all, that he has been cheated on by God?

What do we do when our dream for the future suddenly ends, with no satisfactory explanation?

I remember the hurt and pain I felt when a dating relationship came to an end, whether I was on the receiving or initiating side of the breakup. Gone were the golden hopes for a future of shared companionship, dashed were the dreams of fulfillment from my loneliness, rent asunder were the mental photographs of a joy-filled future. Over and over again, it seemed that I would meet the “right” person only to experience hurt, anger, and betrayal when the relationship didn’t develop to meet my expectations. I often felt “cheated on” by God—why wasn’t God providing the wonderful person, the wonderful future, I dreamed of? Perhaps Joseph felt the same.

What do we do when our dream for the future suddenly ends? What do we do when the perfect job doesn’t materialize, when all the time and energy and study we’ve invested into that particular career path is wasted? What do we do when a marriage doesn’t work out the way we hoped it would, and we are suddenly facing a divorce? What do we do when our child falls prey to addiction, and we are made to face questions about our failures as parents? What do we do when we develop cancer and our very life is under the threat of death? In these difficult, painful moments of life we may feel, like Joseph, that we have been cheated on by God. If we are doing what we are supposed to, if we are following God the way we believe we are called to, life just shouldn’t work this way, right?

And yet… in the very moment of his despair, God sends Joseph The Dream. Not just any dream. Not just a dream of explanation. God overshadows Joseph with God’s own hopes for a glorious future, God’s own Great Dream for humanity. God’s dream of a future when humanity is reconciled with a God who desperately loves God’s own creation. Through Jesus, God will transform the world itself. Through Jesus, God will save God’s people from their sins. This is the message, promise, dream that God gives each one of us: Jesus is Emmanuel. God is with us.

In his book, God Has a Dream: A Vision of Hope for Our Time, Archbishop Desmond Tutu writes that “we all experience sadness, we all come at times to despair, and we all lose hope that the suffering in our lives and in the world will ever end” but, he continues,

…there is no such thing as a totally hopeless case. Our God is an expert at dealing with chaos, with brokenness, with all the worst that we can imagine. God created order out of disorder, cosmos out of chaos, and God can do so always, can do so now—in our personal lives and in our lives as nations, globally… Indeed, God is transforming the world now—through us—because God loves us.

Joseph’s life certainly didn’t work out the way he expected it would. Joseph’s own life was transformed; he played a key role as father to God’s own Son. Joseph and Mary were given the monumental task of raising Jesus into the man he would become. In order to live into God’s dream, in order to play his role in God’s story, Joseph had to be willing to give up some of his own dreams. Small as they were in comparison to God’s, that had to be a painful process, full of uncertainty and unknowns. But in the midst of the uncertainty, Joseph clung to the memory of the message God gave him, the promise of the glorious future which Joseph would help birth into being.

God doesn’t come to save our dreams; God comes to save us. When facing life’s heartbreaking moments of loss and grief, what we do is remember. We remember God’s promise that God is with us. We remember God’s promise of redemption.

Remembering God’s promise is not a passive acceptance of whatever happens to us. Remembering God’s promise is an active choice to trust that God will never abandon us, even in the moment of our greatest need. Remembering allows us to let go of the illusion of control we have over our lives, and it gives us the strength to let go of our dreams and expectations in favor of God’s great dream. Remembering God’s presence with us allows us to move forward without fear—even into an unknown future.


The Rev. Chana Tetzlaff

The Rev. Chana Tetzlaff is rector at Emmanuel Episcopal Church in Winchester, Kentucky and is part of the Network for Pastoral Leadership and Congregational Development. Her greatest joy as a priest is walking with people who seek and follow Christ in deep relationship with each other. Chana believes that God’s grace is extended to all, and that nothing is impossible when we truly seek and attend to God’s call to us! In her spare time, Chana can be found dancing Lindy Hop and teaching basic swing, enjoying conversation and caffeine at a coffee house, or exploring local attractions and foodie hangouts in the Kentucky countryside. Chana lives in Winchester with her husband, TJ, and their two dogs, Molly and Momo, and their hedgehog, Jacob.


Advent 3(A): The Arc of Justice

Advent 3(A): The Arc of Justice

Matthew 11:2-11

By: Kristen Leigh Mitchell

“Are you the one who is to come? Or are we to wait for another?”

It was a time of tension, uncertainty, and fear in Jerusalem. The people of Israel had been living under Herod’s cruel governance, and were struggling to maintain their Jewish identity and dignity under the occupation of the Roman Empire.

Along came a wild-eyed, rag-wearing, bug-eating homeless man named John, an itinerant preacher and former Essene who had become a prophet in his own right, calling the Israelites out of their occupied city of Jerusalem and down to the banks of the Jordan River, the place where their ancestors had first crossed over into the Promised Land. There, he immersed them in a baptism of repentance—a new initiation into their identity as the children of Israel.

John also baptized Jesus in this way, though he protested: “Don’t I need to be baptized by you?” John seemed to think Jesus was the one he described in Matthew 3:11-12 who would baptize “with the Holy Spirit and fire,” the one who had come to gather up the wheat from the threshing floor and burn the chaff in the fire. Since the prophet Malachi had foretold, “Behold I will send you Elijah the prophet before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes,” many of the Israelites were waiting for the one who would come to herald the end days of the Roman occupation and inaugurate a time of peace, prosperity, and liberation for the Jews. John had been preaching that “the Kingdom of Heaven was at hand,” and seemed to be convinced that Jesus was the one who had come to inaugurate it.

But then John found himself in prison for sedition after publicly criticizing Herod for cheating on his wife and sleeping with his sister-in-law. Perhaps at this point he was feeling a little less confident. Or perhaps he was just getting a bit impatient. He had heard about the things Jesus was doing.  He knew that Jesus was still preaching the message that “the Kingdom of Heaven was at hand.” But when was the long-awaited revolution going to start?  When would “the great and terrible day of the Lord” begin?  When was he going to set the captives free?

I’m sure John was thinking that sooner rather than later would be great, given the circumstances.

Unfortunately, the story did not pan out the way that John and the other Israelites had hoped. The road was much harder than any of them could have imagined. In spite of the fact that Jesus designated John as “the Elijah who was to come,” implying that he himself was indeed the Messiah, by all earthly standards it would seem that they were wrong. John got beheaded, Jesus was crucified, the zealots lost their revolt against Rome, and the temple was destroyed. Those who believed that “the one who was to come” would be a triumphant and glorious king that would overthrow the existing regime and set things right through a new system of governance were in for a pretty disillusioning paradigm shift.

“What did you expect?” Jesus asked the crowds. “Someone dressed in soft robes? People who dress in soft robes are in royal palaces.”

If we measure triumph and success by the standards of the world—by the standards of empire—we will almost certainly miss Jesus’ meaning when he declares that the Kingdom of God is at hand. And we may find ourselves succumbing all too easily to despair whenever those who rise up into positions political power and domination threaten our identity, our safety, and our livelihood. Unfortunately, our faith in Jesus Christ never promised to save us from suffering in the face of this kind of evil. Looking at the saints and martyrs throughout history, we know that sometimes we are called right to the front lines of resistance, armed only with the promise that love does ultimately win, and that there will be life on the other side of the suffering, even if it is a life that we only get to experience beyond death.

But as Martin Luther King, Jr. pointed out in The Gospel Messenger in 1958,

Evil may so shape events that Caesar will occupy a palace and Christ a cross, but that same Christ arose and split history into A.D. and B.C., so that even the life of Caesar must be dated by his name. Yes, the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.

The Kingdom of God that Jesus describes is not spread through domination and the top-down tactics of political leaders, but through the slow transformation the world from the ground up, through acts of love and healing that spread across space and time like a yeast that eventually permeates the whole of humanity. When we lose our faith in this subtle revolution, and begin to doubt the efficacy of this kind of love in the face of the powers that be, it can be important to take stock in how far we have already come. Just as Jesus reminded John of the deeds that were being done—the blind see, the deaf hear, the lame walk, and the dead are raised—we must remember to tell our stories of hope and triumph in the midst of fear and despair. Though despots may rise, the inauguration of the Kingdom of God has begun. The arc is bending toward justice, and nothing can stop that now.


Kristen Leigh Southworth

Kristen Leigh Mitchell is a freelance writer, theologian, and indie folk singer-songwriter with a Master of Divinity from Union Theological Seminary in New York City, where she focused her studies in theological aesthetics, theology of culture, Biblical interpretation, and ecumenical worship. She is currently living in Greensboro, North Carolina, where she offers workshops, performs music, practices archery, grows vegetables, roller skates, writes, and serves as Assistant to the Director of The Servant Leadership School at Holy Trinity Episcopal Church.

Advent 2A: Liturgical Whiplash

Advent 2A: Liturgical Whiplash

Matthew 3:1-12

By: The Rev. Lee Curtis

Every year, in the second week of Advent I get liturgical whiplash.

Like a sixteen year-old learning how to drive a stick, the lectionary committee throws us John the Baptist after starting strong on Advent 1 with the pressing imminence of the Kingdom of God. Of something beautiful and terrifying out on the horizon. Something we can’t predict, yet must prepare for.

That’s something I can get behind in the midst of the crush of the holiday season. I can ready myself for Christ’s incarnation and his coming again in power and great glory. The Gospel from Advent 1 sets the tone so exquisitely that I have no problem queuing up “O Come O Come Emmanuel,” lighting the wreath, and settling in to a season of preparation for the Incarnation.

Week one sets us up for the infant Jesus and the triumphant Christ.

Week two gives us a man in a hair shirt, and Jesus nowhere to be found.

More and more I’m convinced this is because I don’t quite know what to do with John the Baptist outside of the pericope that appears on the Feast of the Baptism of Our Lord. John makes sense in Epiphany, once we’re in the liturgical mindset of Christ being with and among us. But in Advent, the text, even John himself, feels like an imposition, like something we have to wade through (or use as an excuse to punt to preaching on the Old Testament) until we get to pick ourselves back up on Gaudete Sunday.

Our Eastern Orthodox brothers and sisters have the key here. While the Western Church focuses on John’s ministry of Baptism, the Orthodox refer to John almost exclusively as “John the Forerunner.” It may seem like a small distinction, but our respective titles signify quite a bit. While the Western title focuses on the actions of John himself, the Eastern title pivots on John’s relationship to Jesus. John is the one who is before the one who is to come. The signpost. The way-maker.

This vital emphasis on relationship over action bears out in the text itself. It’s easy to gloss over the fact that the Pharisees and Sadducees were coming to be baptized. They were coming to do what we can’t help but read as the right thing and yet, John tells them to re-orient themselves. Don’t count on your status; God can and is raising up a new people for Godseslf. Turn around. Metanoeite. See yourself, your community, and your place in it differently. Don’t walk out of this water the same way you came in.

If we see what John is exhorting the Pharisees and Sadducees to as an call to conversion rather than a call to do penance (which is how the Vulgate, and most of the history of Western Christianity renders this passage) then drawing the connection from that Metanoia in baptism to the eschatological moment becomes clearer, and locating this passage within the narrative arc of Advent breaks open.

John’s ministry is what it is because of its relation to the coming of Christ. Repentance, conversion, only matters in light of the coming of the Kingdom.

John only is who he is because he is the one who comes before, and we are only who we are because we are in Christ.

Admittedly, I am terrible at remembering this anytime I open my calendar in December. The horrible contemporary irony of the Holiday Season is that in a time when the liturgical year is begging us to just be, we have so much to do. Combine that with our preoccupation of repentance-as-action and it’s easy to see why it’s so difficult for us not to eisegete ourselves into wondering how this text helps us foster an Advent spirituality.

Taking the simple step of embracing John the Baptist as John the Forerunner, even if only until The Baptism of Our Lord, may be enough to spark our imaginations, and allow us to get playful with what’s happening in the text. Softening the transition from the eschatological fever-pitch of Advent 1 to a historical moment that includes only an allusion to Jesus.

It’s one thing to ask Jesus to come and change the world. It is a much more difficult thing to ask Jesus to come and change us. To see ourselves differently. To frame our relationship with God and neighbor in new ways, and then to bear fruit worthy of conversion. My liturgical whiplash is a product of that difficulty, a difficulty that isn’t helped by the particularities of my tradition, or the frenetic pace of the secular season. To see what this text is doing we have to stop. We have to take stock of our relationship to the text, to its protagonist, and to where they both are pointing.

And there’s nothing more quintessentially Advent than that.


The Rev. Lee Curtis

The Rev. Lee Curtis is a twenty-something Episcopal Priest serving as Urban Missioner at Christ Church Cathedral in Indianapolis, Indiana, where he works on building community for those flocking back into the city’s booming downtown. He received his Master of Divinity from the Candler School of Theology at Emory University in 2013, and currently lives in Indy with his wife and two sons.



Advent 1(A): Surprised by the Son of Man

Advent 1A

Matthew 24:36-44

By: The Rev. Leah Lyman Waldron

In college I took a class about religion in American literature. Along with Moby DickBless Me, Ultima, and other literary classics wrestling with momentous spiritual questions, we read Left Behind.  (Thus began a head-scratching fondness for the evangelical apocalyptic imagination that has led me to watch far too many Kirk Cameron movies.)

On the last day of discussing the book in class, we arrived early to arrange extra sets of clothes on our chairs and place our books as though we were about to turn a page; we then snuck down the hall far enough to be out of sight but within listening distance when our professor walked in to realize we had been raptured while he had been—alas—left behind.

Our practical joke was meant all in good fun, as no one in the class actually subscribed to the spiritual body-snatching depicted in the book. But reading the lectionary passage for the first Sunday in Advent reminded me that this imagery, however absurd to mainline Christians, comes straight from Jesus’ mouth—or at least straight from Matthew’s pen.

It’s an odd choice, in some ways, for an Advent passage. We use it to look toward the coming of the Christ Child, yet it primarily speaks to a second coming when the Son of Man will return to judge humanity by our behavior towards one another. The passage is followed by several parables about staying awake, and then the infamous separation of the sheep and the goats according to their treatment of Jesus disguised as “the least of these:” “For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.” (Matthew 25:35-36)

In other words, contrary to the way that Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins have depicted it, whether we’re raptured won’t depend on whether we believed a particular doctrine or dogma about Jesus, but on how faithful we are in responding with compassion and justice to our fellow human beings in today’s version of Jesus in disguise: those dealing with food insecurity and poisoned water, those vilified and rejected as immigrants or refugees in a strange land, those enduring inhumane working conditions that we might buy cheap clothing, those stigmatized and secluded by mental or chronic illness, those incarcerated by a system increasingly marred by racism and the criminalization of the poor.

Although we may fail to live up to this ideal as regularly as we might like, we do know that part of celebrating Christ’s coming is about giving to others. It’s no coincidence that Advent has been translated into the secular Christmas season during which we’re all encouraged to follow Scrooge’s example of “keep[ing] Christmas well”[1] by spreading goodwill and showering generosity on our families, friends, coworkers, and even strangers. As a country we make 30% of our charitable gifts in December[2], while other months average just over 6%; and 38% of Americans who donate to charity said that they are more likely to do so during the holiday season.[3]

But this passage reminds us that such concentrated kindness is missing the point. It makes it seem like we’ve managed to figure out when Jesus is really coming so we can look especially good—despite the fact that “the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour,” unknown even to him (verse 44). Perhaps, thanks in part to this lectionary passage, we’ve all conflated Jesus’ nativity with his second coming. It’s easier, after all, to mark off a season or a date like Giving Tuesday[4] (or the last day your donations will count towards 2016 tax deductions) than to live at a heightened level of generosity and kindness all year long.

One clue we might be doing it wrong is the rather violent images Jesus uses to describe the unexpected advent of the Messiah. The one to judge the nations will appear like the flood in Noah’s days, and those of us busy with the mundane activities of life will know “nothing” until we are “swept away” by the raging waters (verses 38-39). Or he will show up as the terrifying sound of glass shattering when a burglar attempts to invade our homes while we sleep. The contrast with the Jesus we know and love as the Prince of Peace seems absurd.

I think these disturbing illustrations of being caught unawares are meant to shock us into realizing that what we’ve come to see as the status quo—spending extravagantly on material gifts instead of causes that promote justice and mercy, or restricting the majority of our do-gooding to one twelfth of the year—is not the status kindom. Eating, drinking, sleeping, and certainly celebrating marriages aren’t by themselves moral evils—they are necessary and even joyous parts of life. But as Scrooge learned, if we cannot do them with an eye (and an action) towards those who cannot eat, drink, sleep, or celebrate due to ostracism, poverty, or oppression, we’re in for a rude awakening when God calls us to account.

No one should have better cause to protest such a rude awakening than the Bishop of Digne from Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. Despite his position of power and influence, the bishop lives a life of simplicity and generosity towards those in need. As a matter of course he shelters Jean Valjean, a convict newly freed after an outrageous 19 years’ imprisonment for stealing bread to feed his sister’s children. When Valjean becomes a literal thief in the night and makes off with the rectory silver, the bishop has every right to demand justice with righteous indignation. Instead, confronted by the gendarmes who have collared the scruffy Valjean in possession of expensive cutlery, he chides Valjean for not having taken the silver candlesticks too, as part of his gift. The bishop explains his version of justice to his flabbergasted housekeeper: “I have for a long time detained that silver wrongfully. It belonged to the poor. Who was that man? A poor man, evidently.”[5] Being taken advantage of in this way would shock and infuriate most of us to our core. Even further from our repertoire would be the impulse to exonerate the thief and show him or her additional kindness.

(Valjean, it should be noted, was astounded by the bishop’s love for a complete stranger who has wronged him; this unexpected compassion is the beginning of his conversion to a life of caring for those on the margins.)

The bishop’s response may seem absurd, yet it is entirely consistent with Jesus’ admonition to “keep awake:” to live at all times as though Jesus was serious about the way we treat those society deems unstable, worthless, or even morally bankrupt; to live so that when Jesus comes—in December or at any time—we are ready.

Beginning in this Advent season, may we keep Christmas in such a way that we are never surprised by the coming of the Son of Man.






The Rev. Leah Lyman Waldron

A Midwest transplant to the South, The Rev. Leah Lyman Waldron is ordained in the United Church of Christ (UCC) and serves as a preaching pastor at Decatur UCC in Atlanta. She works bi-vocationally as an administrator for a PC(USA) church; if one day she serves a church with its own administrator, she plans to treat that person like royalty. She’s also a mama, pastor’s wife, and Head Thriftvangelist over at