John 2: 1-11
A Sermon Preached by the Reverend Dr. Howard W. Boswell, Jr.
Second Sunday in Ordinary Time, January 17, 2010
Kenmore Presbyterian Church
Kenmore, New York
It happened in Cana of Galilee, a less than remarkable place in a less than respectable region. You could search the Law and the Prophets, even the Writings, and find no mention of Cana of Galilee anywhere. Galilee, well, it was known as Galilee of the Gentiles, and many Jews jeered at the mere mention of its name.
I imagine Cana of Galilee was a lot like any other small village, anywhere. Nothing much ever happened there, except for the ordinary routine of people living and dying. Everybody knew everyone else and strangers seldom visited. People got up before dawn, did chores, and worried and wondered. Once a week, they’d gather in the synagogue to hear the Scriptures read and discussed, and to pray to the one whose name was too holy to say, who seemed far away from Cana of Galilee.
Every day was probably pretty much the same in Cana of Galilee, except when a couple married. Then, for a week, the ordinary routine stopped and the people rejoiced. Everyone brought gifts of food, the best they had to offer, and wine flowed freely, for as the rabbis said, “Where there is wine, there is joy!”
Or did they say, “Where there is no wine, there is no joy”? When the wine ran out, so did the joy and everything returned to normal. Despite their careful planning, something happened on this couple’s day of days. John does not tell us what caused the wine to give out, he only tells us it did. We can only imagine what happened when the happy couple found out. We can only assume they were disappointed, even distraught, because I don’t need to tell you how high emotions run at weddings! As the rest of the village continued to consume what only a handful knew to be the dregs, off in the corner, Jesus and his mother had a discussion, which began with the ominous words, “They have no wine.”
“They have no wine.” I wonder whether we understand the anxiety behind those words or not. We have no idea who invited the mother of Jesus or Jesus and his disciples, but we can imagine there was some relationship to the family. The mother of Jesus knew the problem and felt for the young couple. She knew the shame it would bring upon them to run out of wine. She knew how village folk were; they would never forgive, let alone forget this oversight. “They had no wine,” they would say again and again.
I think we may grasp the fear behind those words better than we know. As we complete the first decade of the third millennium, many of us feel as if we’ve run out of wine. It’s hard to feel joyful, because some of us feel as if we’ve run out of faith, nowadays. We wonder where God has gone when the earth shakes and people die. We worry God no longer cares what happens to those who suffer.
It’s hard to feel joyful, because some of us feel as if we’ve run out of hope, nowadays. A year ago, when we inaugurated Barack Obama, we had hope; we felt confident things would change. Yet, this year has been frustrating, because people don’t have the patience to address problems with the economy, terrorism, and health care, which took a decade, even longer to develop. As my father used to say about people who wanted their cars repaired, they want it done yesterday.
It’s hard to feel loving, nowadays, because compassion carries too high a price tag. We hear appeals for help, after 9-11, after Katrina, now, after Haiti, to name only three of several disasters to hit in the last ten years. We hear appeals from the church to give of our time, talents, and treasure, but when we look at our calendars and checkbooks, every day is full and every dollar is spoken for. Besides, we wonder who loves us, who cares about the pain and emptiness we have within us.
We hear Jesus answer his mother and it sounds about like what we’d expect to hear, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.” We have no clue what he means. What’s he waiting for? Christmas! Actually, he’s waiting for Good Friday, for Easter, but even more, I think we need to hear Jesus’ words as good news, not more of the same.
You see, we assume Jesus to be at our beckon call. If we pray for something and he doesn’t answer, we assume he doesn’t care.Yet, his words remind us of the wisdom of the Rolling Stones, “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try some time, you just might find, you get what you need.” We want immediate relief for all of the troubles in the world. We want to feel joyful again; we want to have faith once more; we want to hope yet again; and we want to love as we once did. Yet, if we try, we just might find, we get what we need, if we let Jesus take time with us, if we wait to follow his lead.
When we give it some thought, Jesus’ mother did just that. She did not give up trying to resolve the want of wine at the wedding, but she waited on her son’s solution to the problem. She turned to the servants and said what I think all of us need to hear, “Do whatever he tells you.” The servants follow Jesus’ instructions to the letter. They fill six stone water jars, used for the Jewish rites of purification. They draw off some and give it to the steward, who calls over the groom.Without a clue about where it came from, he congratulates the groom on keeping the good wine until now.
“Do whatever he tells you.” It seems so simple and it can become simplistic. Some preachers tell people if they only follow what they teach, God will bless them with abundance, even a superabundance of riches. I don’t think that’s the “takeaway” from the transformation of water into wine at the wedding of Cana of Galilee. Instead, we begin to understand what it means, when we consider who really knew what happened. Here’s a way to think about it: If you look at wedding pictures, better a wedding video, who do you see? Well, the bride, the bridegroom, the wedding party, the families, they will be in nearly every picture, but the guests may appear in a few, and those who work the hall will not be seen at all. Now, you’ll understand what I mean, when I tell you this miracle occurred off camera. Only the servants, the disciples, Jesus’ mother, and Jesus really knew where the good wine came from. Only Jesus’ disciples really got what happened, “when Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee.” Only they saw his glory and believed in him.
I believe miracles happen all the time, but we cannot command them or create them from whole cloth. We can only hear Jesus’ voice and do whatever he tells us. Like those servants, I suspect the miracle the Master wants to do among us may mean filling the stone jars, the cold, sterile, imperfect vessels we call religion with the living waters of a real relationship with him, in which we trust him to provide us with the good wine of the new creation. Like his disciples, I suspect we may need to stand alongside of him, close enough to see his glory revealed when our resources run out and we must try to get what we need.
I borrowed the title for this sermon from a song by Bruce Springsteen. Written in the aftermath of 9-11, “Countin’ on a Miracle” reminds us how we cannot depend on “storybook stories” or “never ending songs” to heal us and fill us, nowadays. Yet, in his book, The Gospel according to Bruce Springsteen, Jeffrey B. Symynkywicz suggests, “With grace, or even sometimes simply with patience, our emptiness can be filled. Miracles of healing are not preordained, but they do occur.” The song ends with these poignant words, which remind us of what real miracles require:
I’m running through the forest with the wolf at my heels.
My king is lost at midnight when the tower bells peal.
We’ve got no fairytale ending; in God’s hands our feet is complete.
You’re heaven’s here in my heart; our Love’s this dust beneath my feet.
If I’m gonna live, I lift my life, darlin’, to you.
I’m countin’ on a miracle, baby, I’m countin’ on a miracle.
Darlin’, I’m countin’ on a miracle to come through.
Only with such surrender, will we get the miracles we really need.
©2010 Howard W. Boswell, Jr.
Isaiah 43:1-7 and Luke 3: 15-22
A Sermon Preached by the Rev. Dr. Howard W. Boswell, Jr.
Baptism of the Lord, Sunday, January 10, 2010
Kenmore Presbyterian Church
Kenmore, New York
Two days before Christmas, I received an email from Princeton Theological Seminary. It announced a new website, called, “Ad Fontes: A Primer in Reformed Theology.” My alma mater designed this new site, “to help small groups return ‘to the sources’ and study Reformed theology in a systematic way throughout 2010.”
Now, I may check out this website some time this year. I may even begin a small group to study Reformed theology this year. Yet, I found those two words, “Ad Fontes” fascinating. In Latin, they mean “to the sources.” John Calvin and our Reformed forebears heard a call in those two words. When they set about reforming the church, they went back to Scripture and the Early Church fathers to find the source of the church’s power.
Today, as we reaffirm our baptismal covenant as a congregation, and ordain Marguerite, John, and Charlie and install Jennifer, Delores, Marilyn, David, and Kevin as deacons and elders, I thought it would be worthwhile for us to return to the source. In 2010, we need a reformation of our lives and our life together, which begins by remembering what happens at this font, how God calls us, “My children,” and claims us in love.
We begin this year, “Tossed about, with many a conflict, many a doubt, fightings and fears within, without.” Now, I don’t need to rehearse for you all that troubles us from without— the economy, joblessness, terrorism, wars… Nor do I need to review what’s going on within our walls— financial woes, numerical decline, questions about the future… I don’t need to remind you all of it, because you know it all too well. Instead, I need you to hear a word of hope this morning: “Return to the Source!” We need to come home again to the One who love us just as we are.
Now, we need to know the sources of our faith, of course, the Scriptures and the church’s Confessions. We need to study what the Bible teaches and what the church believes. Yet, if we leave it there, as only words upon a page, nothing wonderful will come of it. The words must reveal the Word to us, who came to share our human lot, who stood in line with all the rest of us to receive a baptism he did not really need.
Whenever we ordain officers, we ask them whether they “trust in Jesus Christ your Savior, acknowledge him Lord of all and Head of the Church, and through him believe in one God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” We ask them if they “accept the Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments to be, by the Holy Spirit, the unique and authoritative witness to Jesus Christ in the Church universal, and God’s Word to you.” These questions are not merely intellectual exercises. They require a movement of the heart, an act of the will. These questions make it clear where the Source of our lives and our life together lies. They remind us to whom we belong in life and in death.
While all of us may not be ordained to an office within the church, God calls each one of us by name. We may not remember when and where, but once upon a time, we were brought to this font or one like it. Our parents held us in their arms; we kneeled before the minister or priest; we waded into the water of a baptistry, river, or lake. We heard these words or ones like them, spoken over us, as water poured over us or we descended beneath it: “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Then, someone prayed over us, as a loving hand held our head, asking God to give us the gifts of the Spirit. For some of us, precious oil was pressed onto our brow, and someone said our name, with words like these: “Child of the covenant, you have been sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism, and marked as Christ’s own forever.” If we listened carefully, we would hear an echo, a voice from heaven, saying, “You are my child. I love you. I’m very proud of you.”
Listen, people of God, I know how fearful things are. Many voices in church and in culture make us afraid. Some family and friends raise anxious doubts. Yet, we can believe with 1 John 4:18, “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.” While friends and family may fail us, we know of one who never will. This one calls us, saying, “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine,” and “You are my Child, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” We can trust this one’s love is sure, because this one came and stood in line with us to receive a baptism he didn’t need, to bear our human failings for us.
On the last day of last year, I read something by Thomas R. Kelly. A Quaker, Kelly lived from 1893 to 1941. He was an educator, missionary, scholar, and speaker. He wrote A Testament of Devotion, one of the most beautiful books I’ve ever read, in which he said,
- There is a divine Abyss within us all, a holy Infinite Center, a Heart, a Life who speaks in us and through us to the world. We have all heard this holy Whisper at times. At times we have followed the Whisper, and amazing equilibrium of life, amazing effectiveness of life set in. But too many of us have heeded the Voice only at times. Only at times have we submitted to His holy guidance. We have not counted this Holy Thing within us to be the most precious thing in the world.
In 2010, may we plumb the depths of this divine Abyss within us together. May we hear that holy Whisper and heed God’s Voice. May we submit ourselves to His holy guidance. May we discover anew how this Holy Thing within us is the most precious thing in the world. May we return to the Source, to whom we belong in life and in death, who claims us as beloved and well pleasing. May this Source reform us according to God’s Word and Spirit. Amen.
©2010 Howard W. Boswell, Jr.
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Matthew 2: 1-12
A Sermon Preached by the Rev. Dr. Howard W. Boswell, Jr.
Second Sunday after Christmas, January 3, 2010
Kenmore Presbyterian Church
Kenmore, New York
On Christmas Eve, I told many of you how I set up a Nativity scene like ours, every year at the church I served in Chicago. Well, what goes up must come down, so every year, sometime after Christmas, I would carefully wrap each piece, return it to the box, and store them away. I asked Kathy to let me take some of the Nativity scene away for today. I took out the shepherds, the donkey, the cow, the sheep, and Joseph. What remains seems like only half of the scene countless Christmas pageants arrange in our minds: the Three Wise men, their camels, Mary, and the Christ Child.
However, on Christmas Eve, I almost played a game with you. Have you ever seen a puzzle, called “What’s Wrong with this Picture?” You have to find so many things out of place or missing in a picture. Looking at the Nativity scene today, you would say, “Where are the shepherds, the donkey, the cow, the sheep, and Joseph?” When we read Luke’s telling of Jesus’ birth, he only includes the shepherds, the angels, and “Mary and Joseph and the child lying in the manger.” I have no problem with a donkey or two, some cows, maybe a few sheep, but Luke doesn’t mention the magi or the camels.
Nothing’s wrong with the Nativity scene as set today, as far as Matthew describes it. The first evangelist doesn’t mention shepherds, angels, and Joseph. He doesn’t say anything about camels, nor does he tell us how many magi were there, but since countless generations of the faithful imagine the scene just so, who am I to leave out these details?
Of course, we leave out other details when we imagine the scene. We leave out Herod, because his presence disturbs our seasonal sensibilities. We tend to forget how he receives the news these visitors from the East brought him, about a newborn king of the Jews. We fail to recall how this word frightens him for what king wants to hear his reign is ending. We tend to skip over the next passage. When we come face to face with the slaughter of innocents, it makes us almost cry, because we cannot stand to see a child suffer, let alone many children die at brutal hands.
At some level, we leave out Herod, because he reminds us too much of a side of ourselves we would rather not see. Someone called it our “shadow.” It’s the side of us that holds on to what we have with a death grip. While we may long to lay our gifts at the feet of the Christ Child, we know his claims over our lives are complete. Like Herod, we fear losing control. We worry what might happen if we really offered him our heart. What might we lose? How might we change? Like Herod, all of us resist his lordship, so we leave him out of the scene, because he reflects something within us.
Another detail, we leave out are the high priests and the scribes. In his brilliant commentary on Matthew, Frederick Dale Bruner translates verse four in a way that caught my attention, “So [Herod] gathered all the senior pastors and the bible teachers of the people of God, and pushed them with this question: ‘Where is the Christ supposed to be born?’” Yet, when confronted with news of his birth, they offered the wise men a road map, rather than going to see for themselves this great thing.
Sometimes, I wonder whether pastors and teachers, all of us confuse information about Jesus with the transformation he seeks to bring. While we never cease to be students of God’s word, eventually, we need to act upon what we’ve heard. More than learning moral principles, we seek after meaning and purpose for our lives. More than having religion, we enter a relationship with the living God, who revealed himself in Jesus. More than receiving spiritual solace, we enter the struggle between the coming light and this present darkness. More than answering our questions, God invites us on a quest.
W. H. Auden concludes For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio, with this chorus that captures his aspect of our life in Christ:
He is the Way.
Follow him through the land of unlikeness;
You will see rare beasts and have unique adventures.
He is the Truth.
Seek him in the kingdom of Anxiety;
You will come to a great city that has expected your return for years.
He is the Life.
Love him in the world of the flesh;
And at your marriage all its occasions shall dance for joy.
This Epiphany, may we enter such a Way, such a Truth, such a Life. Matthew doesn’t say whether there were three wise men or whether they were kings. Yet, he speaks clearly of the Magi’s persistence in their search for the Child. They see his star and seek after him. Nothing will stop them, not even Herod. They seem to find what someone called “the joy in the journey.” They stay on the Way.
Yet, the Magi didn’t wander aimlessly, following one thing and then another. They follow the Truth. They allowed God to guide them, first, by the star, then by Scripture, both of which God gives them. They submitted to God’s guidance from the start. They remind us while we may not know what the future holds, as E. Stanley Jones said, we know the one who holds the future. We know the one whose arms long to embrace us at our journey’s end.
When the Magi find him, the Life, his eyes held the star they followed so long and they love him in the world of the flesh, offering him gifts as befit a king. So, where will we find the Child? He is here. As he made water into wine at the wedding of Cana, as he blessed the bread and the cup and made them body and blood, let us love him in the world of the flesh, this human lot he took on to tell us of God’s love for us. “And at your marriage all its occasions shall dance for joy.”
©2010 Howard W. Boswell, Jr.
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