Sermon 010399,

The scripture from Jeremiah is a wonderful scripture to hear as we begin the new year. It is all about renewal, rebuilding, gathering in, and returning. The wounds of Israel will be healed -- a New Jerusalem will be built -- and the scattered exiles will return amid universal joy. The restored nation is pictured in idyllic terms as a "Watered Garden".

There is a story told of a mother who came into the living room one day and found her five year old daughter busy behind a card table with paper and crayons. The young girl was engrossed in drawing and didn't realize her mother was standing beside her watching her draw. "What are you doing", her mother asked. "Oh," her daughter replied, "I'm drawing a picture of God."

"How can you do that?", her mother said, "no one has ever seen God. We don't know what God looks like. Her daughter replied, " that may be true up to now, but when I finish with my drawing, everyone will know". What wonderful confidence! That is the same kind of confidence that is implied by Jeremiah's words.

"they shall be radiant over the goodness of the Lord,
over the grain, the wine, and the oil,
over the young of the flock and the herd;
their life shall become like a watered garden,
and they shall never languish again."

I got to thinking this week about what our church life would be like if we acted like a watered garden. What if we had that kind of confidence. What if we really did blossom in exuberant ways. What if loved ruled every aspect of our church life - what would it be like? I came up with four things that might happen.

The first thing that would happen is that there would be a totally different quality to any work done in the context of the church. Everything that was done would be done out of joy. One of the things that would happen is that our work would be play, joyful play. There would be no feelings of being overburdened with chores or responsibilities.

Second trust would be automatic and because we trusted each other, the quality of our conversations, our prayer life and our study would be deeper -- new potentials would blossom in the context of this safe and loving center. Coming to church would be a necessity, a healthy dependence that we had on being with each other.

The third thing that would happen is that our future building project would be completed in record time - money would be no problem - it would be as they say "a piece of cake".

And fourth, there would be no end to what we would do for others. Priorities would shift; values would change; satisfaction would be manifold.

The possibility that all of this could happen - the possibility that our community could truly represent an incarnation of love unlike all other loves is not unrealistic; it is the central message of our faith that this possibility exists.

But we all know that life is not all a series of highs. We know that not everything that will happen next year will be ideal. There will be dark times. But it is still exciting to plan for the future.

Joseph Donders, in his book "Christ the Divine Network" tells the Story of two persons interned in a concentration camp. Both were looking out of their barrack's windows on a particularly dark night. The night was so deep, so pitch black, that these prisoners could not see the barbed wire fence or the trees surrounding the camp. The watch towers and the guards, though only a few yards from their buildings, were hidden from view. One prisoner, looking into the endless darkness, said to himself, I see only the darkness. I see only the mud in which this camp is swimming. The other prisoner, looking into the same night said to himself, look up there, I can see little pinpoints of light -- stars that seem to appear in the inky gloom. Both men saw the same night -- one had lost hope -- the other had not.

In "Family Reunion", T.S. Eliot has Henry say: "I feel quite happy, as if happiness did not consist in getting what one wanted or in getting rid of what can't be gotten rid of, but in a different vision". That is, a person finds happiness and meaning, not by changing his or her circumstances, but in having a different view of life. Change can be envisioned as frightening departure or emerging growth. It is not what life is or what life does, but the different vision we hold which causes or prevents streams in the desert and watered gardens.

For the people of Israel, in the days of Herod the King, the night must have seemed especially dark. For centuries prophets had been talking about the Messiah to come, but except for a brief flutter of independence when the Maccabees came to power, Israel had been subject to one conquering empire after another. Babylon, Persia, Greece, Egypt and Rome had all had their turns. Darkness would have been easy to see.

There were some, however, who in the middle of that same dark night saw a new star at its rising - a star so unique that they believed it must have something to do with a new beginning. It is at this time of the year that the magi made the crucial decision to follow the star which meant, in effect, leaving behind them life as they had known it. It was a significant crossing in their lives and their lives were changed by the experience.

Each New Year is a crossing experience. For having experienced Christmas once again, we have been exposed to a sense of the wonder and majesty of life, and we make our way into the New Year freshly aware of the nearness of God. For Christmas is hope. Christmas tells us that God has not forgotten the world, but has come to live in it.

I discover three insights into the nature of the faith journey from the story of the magi's journey. I'd like to share them with you.

First the story of the star in the East tells us something about the way God has beckoned us and will continue to beckon us. For God's sign was not a direct statement - it was not a prominent billboard in front of us. Rather the star - the way we are touched , the way we are nudged towards wholeness, is located in the mystery of our longing. And when you follow a star you can't just go any way - you must follow the way it goes. It may lead to the small confines of a little town, a small barn, with a small infant in it, but you will find that the experience brings an expansive world view - it doesn't make you narrow, but it explodes the whole concept of your attitudes, your thoughts, your relationships, your feelings, your forgiveness, your tolerance, your love, and your hope. Attitudes and relationships, instead of becoming more narrow, become more liberal, more tolerant, more understanding and more expansive.

The second insight that I find in the story is that there is purpose in the journey itself. Often the journey seems to run against our common sense. It usually comes at a very inconvenient time. It is also true that the journey is often blocked by the Herod systems of this world, but it ultimately leads to life.

And the third insight of our scripture is that our home is at our journey's end. The magi discovered God and themselves when they worshipped. That is what we are invited to rediscover every time we come to the table together to share the bread and cup.

The magi who followed the star were astrologers, dream interpreters, and priests of an alien religion. And yet God sent them on a journey, chose them for the same reasons we are chosen. Their obedient following of the star led them to the place where their lives were transformed. Transformed is a big word -- it implies that a lot happened.

Quite a few years ago a young boy stationed in Vietnam wrote these words in a letter home. "Today I am not proud of myself. We were supposed to evacuate all the villages in a fifty mile area. Since time was a factor, we were told to waste all the livestock and waste the ones who will not move. As we went on the sweep, my buddy and I stopped at a little clay hut. Having called "Lam Da" before we did it, which means come out, we pulled the pin from the grenade and threw it into the hut. We fell to the ground and lay flat on our stomachs waiting for the explosion. During that interval when we could only hear the fuse of the grenade spewing, we suddenly heard the cry of an infant child coming from a hut. It seemed like an eternity as I lay there, the grenade spewing, an infant child crying, and I was wondering what I should do and what was my responsibility.

We live today in that kind of period. But there is one hope. Our hope is that lying prostrate on our stomachs, waiting for the explosion, we might hear the cry of a newborn babe. For that is our hope. That is what the Christmas season is all about. It is the affirmation that a miracle is possible. For God has given to you and to me this new child, a hope of the world. It is time to sit in silence. It is time to hear the child cry.

We will each choose the route we will take in the New Year. We will decide to what extent we each want to be a watered garden. On the communion table this morning you will find bread for the journey and the cup for refreshment, provisions for the pilgrimage to come in the year before us. Come to prepare yourself. Come for all things are made ready. Amen