Mark 9:9-13, The Message

Coming down the mountain, Jesus swore them to secrecy. “Don’t tell a soul what you saw. After the Son of Man rises from the dead, you’re free to talk.” They puzzled over that, wondering what on earth “rising from the dead” meant.

Meanwhile they were asking, “Why do the religion scholars say that Elijah has to come first?”

Jesus replied, “Elijah does come first and get everything ready for the coming of the Son of Man. They treated this Elijah like dirt, much like they will treat the Son of Man, who will, according to Scripture, suffer terribly and be kicked around contemptibly.”

Peterson, once again, nails it. The scene for this small interchange is the Mount of Transfiguration and those three close disciples have just seen something that made the eyes bug out of their heads. And then . . . Jesus orders them to shut up about it. Say what? We just saw you shining like lightening and Elijah and Moses coming alongside, having a little sidebar with you, and now we cannot talk about it?? Exactly.

Mark has Jesus tell his disciples to keep quiet frequently. Scholars call it “the Messianic secret,” and it’s an interesting part of Mark’s viewpoint. Clearly, they don’t keep all those secrets terribly well, do they? And they don’t understand Jesus’s logic for this particular secret-keeping at all. Rising from the dead? What the heck does that mean?

But they found out, didn’t they? And then all those other warnings came flooding back, all those secrets — the ones they kept and the ones they didn’t — and they began talking about them and writing them down. So now, we have them. Isn’t that wonderful? 

Personally, I think Jesus still shows up secretly. A lot. In the midst of ugliness, suddenly there is a spot of beauty. In the midst of despair, there is a shaft of hope. Just glimpses, that’s usually all we get. But eventually, those glimpses will grow and grow and grow, until the time is here when ALL will be revealed. That’s what Advent is about, you know. Yes, we wait for the baby. But we wait for the Risen Savior, too. Even so, come, Lord Jesus!

Help us to wait well, Lord. Help us to look for you in the secret places  you show up between now and then. And open our hearts and our arms to those small moments of grace, goodness, beauty and love that make life worth living. Help us to bring them as well as to see them, Lord God. Make us hope-bringers and love-givers.

Acts 3:17—4:4

 “And now, friends, I know that you acted in ignorance, as did also your rulers. In this way God fulfilled what he had foretold through all the prophets, that his Messiah would suffer. Repent therefore, and turn to God so that your sins may be wiped out, so that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord, and that he may send the Messiah appointed for you, that is, Jesus, who must remain in heaven until the time of universal restoration that God announced long ago through his holy prophets. Moses said, ‘The Lord your God will raise up for you from your own people a prophet like me. You must listen to whatever he tells you. And it will be that everyone who does not listen to that prophet will be utterly rooted out of the people.’ And all the prophets, as many as have spoken, from Samuel and those after him, also predicted these days. You are the descendants of the prophets and of the covenant that God gave to your ancestors, saying to Abraham, ‘And in your descendants all the families of the earth shall be blessed.’ When God raised up his servant, he sent him first to you, to bless you by turning each of you from your wicked ways.”

I gotta admit — it’s not feeling like we’ve lived up to this promise in Acts very well. Are ‘all nations of the earth’ blessed because of us, the church, those who follow after Jesus? That’s what’s supposed to happen, but . . . does it?

Sometimes, yes, sometimes, not so much. And sometimes, not at all.

We are called, we are designed, to be bringers of blessing, not curse — harbingers of hope, not despair. So, let’s be who we’re supposed to be, whaddya say? Wherever you go this day, see if you can keep that idea at the front of your heart and mind: I’m meant to be a bringer of blessing. So, the checker at the grocery store, the clerk at the coffee shop, the guy in the cubicle next to you, the students you teach, or the teachers from whom you learn — are they blessed by your presence with them, even if it’s momentary?

Are others blessed by my presence? 

Good questions to ask as we draw ever nearer to Christmas.

Good questions to ask all through the year, too.

Lord, help me to be a person who blesses others. Keep my lips from criticism — and even my face, Lord. Keep me from scowling, eyebrow-raising, lip-pursing. May my presence be benign and welcoming, wherever I find myself throughout each day, Lord. Thank you!

Psalm 125, The Message

Those who trust in God
are like Zion Mountain:
Nothing can move it, a rock-solid mountain
you can always depend on.
Mountains encircle Jerusalem,
and God encircles his people—
    always has and always will.
The fist of the wicked
will never violate
What is due the righteous,
provoking wrongful violence.
Be good to your good people, God,
    to those whose hearts are right!
God will round up the backsliders,
corral them with the incorrigibles.
Peace over Israel!

Oh, I hope I’m like a mountain! That’s a great word picture for faithfulness, isn’t it? Immovable, dependable, sturdy. Yet even mountains are not impervious to harm. We’ve watched our beloved Santa Ynez mountains come under attack these last days, fire racing in every direction, leaving scars that will last for decades.

But they still stand. YES. They still stand.

Beaten, but not bowed. Wounded, but not dissolved.

Soon, I hope, I will see them again from my perch by the window where I write. I’m not sure I realized how much I depend on that view to anchor me as I work. They are there — but I can no longer see them. At all.

I trust they remain, and that someday soon, the fresh sea breeze will blow all this smoke and ash away and my view will be restored. Yet, even when I cannot see their outline . . those mountains are there, standing tall. So, I pray that I’ll stand tall, too. And you, wherever  God has placed you — that  you will stand tall, no matter what. 

Help us, O God of Zion, help us to be mountains for you. Unshakeable, immovable, faithful, dependable. Thank you for these words, for this picture of commitment, and for the psalmist’s reminder that YOU encircle us, even as mountains encircle cities. Thank you!

Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11, NRSV

The spirit of the Lord God is upon me,
because theLord has anointed me;
he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,
to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
and release to the prisoners;
to proclaim the year of theLord’s favor,
and the day of vengeance of our God;
to comfort all who mourn;
to provide for those who mourn in Zion—
to give them a garland instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
the mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
the planting of the Lord, to display his glory.
They shall build up the ancient ruins,
they shall raise up the the former devastations;
   they shall repair the ruined cities,
 the devastations of many generations.

For I the Lord love justice,
    I hate robbery and wrongdoing;
I will faithfully give them their recompense,
    and I will make an everlasting covenant with them.
Their descendants shall be known among the nations,
    and their offspring among the peoples;
all who see them shall acknowledge
    that they are a people whom the Lord has blessed.
I will greatly rejoice in the Lord,
    my whole being shall exult in my God;
for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation,
    he has covered me with the robe of righteousness,
as a bridegroom decks himself with a garland,
    and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.
For as the earth brings forth its shoots,
    and as a garden causes what is sown in it to spring up,
so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise
    to spring up before all the nations.

This is a spectacular picture of a world made right, isn’t it? And as hard as it is for me to believe in this reality at this juncture in our national and international history, I am hanging onto it with all my might.

We serve a God who loves justice — which means a God who wants us to be right with one another as well as with him. And we have a long way to go to get there, don’t we? But . . . if we, the church, can see ourselves as God dreams of us . . . as oaks of righteousness, planted in this world by the hand of God, then hope remains.

Can we let go of the prejudices, the misconceptions, the misinterpretations of both scripture and life that have plagued us so much in recent years? Can we look at Jesus, this one whose birth we celebrate at the end of the month, and see him for who he truly was? A humble, righteous man, THE Man, THE Human, who models for us what being an oak of righteousness looks like.

Read those stories he used as teaching devices. Observe what he did as he walked around that occupied land into which he was born. Notice whom he singles out for attention, where he uses his healing power. Jesus surprises, over and over again. Can we — the church, the bride of Christ — can we surprise people by our graciousness, our inclusion, our insistence upon justice for all, our ability to care for ‘the least of these?’ That is my prayer, now, during Advent, and as we continue to move through the year ahead. Will you join me?

Lord Jesus, we so often miss you, don’t we? We look at the rules and the rituals and the doctrines and the dogmas we’ve loaded on ourselves over the centuries . . . and we miss you. Give us eyes to see you, truly see YOU. And then empower us to live as you live, to care as you cared, to hope as you hoped. Thank you.

photo by Matt Erickson, Monday night, December 11, 2017, from West Beach, Santa Barbara, looking over the wharf toward the fire in Carpinteria

Habakkuk 3:13-19, NRSV

You came forth to save your people,
to save your anointed.
You crushed the head of the wicked house,
laying it bare from foundation to roof. Selah
You pierced with their own arrows the head of his warriors,
who came like a whirlwind to scatter us,
gloating as if ready to devour the poor who were in hiding.
You trampled the sea with your horses,
churning the mighty waters.

I hear, and I tremble within;
my lips quiver at the sound.
Rottenness enters into my bones,
and my steps tremble beneath me.
I wait quietly for the day of calamity
to come upon the people who attack us.

Though the fig tree does not blossom,
    and no fruit is on the vines;
though the produce of the olive fails,
    and the fields yield no food;
though the flock is cut off from the fold,
    and there is no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord;
    I will exult in the God of my salvation.
God, the Lord, is my strength;
he makes my feet like the feet of a deer,
and makes me tread upon the heights.

Here in Santa Barbara, we are living through a time when we ‘tremble within’ a great deal. This latest fire is the biggest one I’ve ever seen in my long life in this desert of a state. We’ve had some scary moments. Our home is not in danger, but the one that used to be ours (that we still own and is now leased by our son and his family) remains in the evacuation zone as I write this. Our loved ones are safe, living in their trailer over the hill (and commuting to work, as needed — every school district within 35 miles has cancelled classes for the rest of the year). But so many others are threatened. So these words from dear old Habakkuk hearten me in the midst of it. The smoke is thick enough to do harm to our lungs, the ashy residue covers our back patio and drifts down continuously. And yet . .  though the smoke rise, the ashes fall and the flames snap and terrorize, I will rejoice in the Lord.

Help me to rejoice in you, even in the hardest moments of this life I live. Thank you for your presence, for small signs of beauty, even now, for the encouragement of friends and the bravery of fire fighters. Even here, on the edge of the apocalypse, your presence shines out around us. Thank you!