Sermons

Our eldest child, Josh, was about eighteen months.  He was already walking and wild. Imagine the most towheaded ball of fire you can, and then double it.  Josh was fast and onery.  Now to be fair he is almost forty,, an ordained pastor in the PCUSA, married with three kids and two dogs so his ability to create a wild rumpus has been focused and refined a bit.  But at eighteen months, wow, he gave us a run for our money.

Kathy and I made the drive to visit my grandparents one summer day when Josh was yet a ball of fire. And to be fair again my grandmother was equally as onery and wild as her great grandchild.  She was a strange mix of joy and ferocity.  We should have thought through bringing these two together.  In short order it was obviously a genetic clash of titans erupting. A test of wills and arm wrestling.

              My grandmother wanted Josh to sit on her lap, hold him, and kiss his blonde mop of hair.  Josh wanted to flee, to be let loose, to run.  I watch my grandmother grasp him tighter the harder he fought.  The more he writhed in her lap the more determined she became to not let go.  Finally, as his back was arching and his grunts were about to break into wails my grandmother looked at us and said, "this rotten kid really loves me.  Don't you think!"  And with that she let him wriggle to the ground and run for cover.

              I've loved having this memory linger the last few weeks.  Each time I can see the fierceness in both of their eyes.  Each time I remember the grown man is a little guy again and my grandmother is alive.  Great memory.

              As will happen if you let your memories come and go without fear, as it will happen I had another memory come to call.  In some ways it is the opposite, a conversation at the end of life.  Yet, I was surprised to find their common theme.

              My brother was worried about our parents.  Living alone, aging, starting to find the limits of independence.  To appease him as he didn't accept my trust that they were doing well, to appease him I went and stayed with my folks for two weeks.  My thought was: you can fake it for a week, you can't fake it for two.  So if there were problems, if there was danger, I would see it.

              At the end of the two weeks I sat down with them and said, "I think you are doing great.  You have a good life, friends; you can get around, and you even have a pup. But there are a few things I would suggest.  Nothing big. But things to consider."

              I started with the plethora of small carpets scattered here and there.  "You should give these away," I said.  "Each of those rugs is a broken hip.  A broken hip is a bad day."  Next, I suggested a small fence in the back of their house.  "You need to be able let the dog out alone in winter without you braving the snow and ice as well."  Lastly, I gave them a piece of advice I offer to many seniors, especially before their health becomes precarious.  "Make a list of your trusted vendors.  Plumber, handyman, painter, gardener.  Have a list and make sure you know them and trust them."

              I was nearly done with my list when my father interjected, interrupted.  "I will never leave this house.  I will die here.  Even if I have to crawl up these stairs, I am not leaving."  I nodded in concurrence and then added, "okay.  Got it.  But maybe crawling up the stairs is more of a plan B.  You know.  I can put in a chairlift on those stairs for 5000 dollars.  Not cheap.  But a better plan than crawling.  Let's call crawling up the stairs plan B." 

              They kept the carpets but put in the fence.  I was amazed though to watch and hear my mother share my father's passing with the handyman and the mechanic and the gardener.  In their tears I could see he made a good list. 

              I am more and more amazed to see how memories converse, talk to one another; it is as if they dance together and exchange glances.  The wild little boy unable to be held, the man near the end of his life not wanting to be dependent, to be determined.  So different, one beginning and one ending, but both fighting to be free, to be unencumbered by the wishes of others. 

              As I watched and listened to these memories come together, move together, it was as if my old friend Schleiermacher sidled up beside me and spoke as if he too could see through my mind's eye. The need to be dependent, he said, the need to trust, the need to be held, so human, so basic, from beginning to end, and yet, so is our struggle.  We turn away from grace and mercy, we shun the embrace, we want to stand alone when all around are arms ready to gather us.  The feeling of absolute dependence, such a deep, eternal memory in each of us.

              When I read the passage from Luke today, when I heard his lament, O Jerusalem, I was struck by two things.  The first is the absolute powerlessness of God, such a vulnerable God.  To be heartbroken, to be sad, that one you love has turned away.  I was struck by the all too human voice of God.  How I have wanted to gather you.

              The other striking feature is the turning away.  Jesus says, O have I longed to gather you, but you turned away.  What could be read as sin or shame or heartlessness, in my memories this moment became the poignant struggle, the desperate need to be held and the fear keeping us from love. The fear of a little boy unable to be held, and the fear of a man at the end of life not wanting to be robbed of freedom.  So similar.  So very human.

              There is a great deal happening in our lesson today.  There is a description of Jesus' ministry.  The one political statement of Jesus, calling Herod an old fox. Jesus seems fearless.  I will do my work without fear because we are not in Jerusalem.  There is the cryptic call for work being today and tomorrow.  Sounds like a pop tune, adage.  I will do my work today and do my work tomorrow.  I will only rest on the third day. 

              Scholars have long deemed our lesson here as one of the most important choices of Luke.  Matthew records this lament over Jerusalem when Jesus was in Jerusalem.  He weeps over Jerusalem in the spot tradition holds is near the top of the Mount of Olives.  In Luke, in our reading today, Jesus is in one more random village, one more town along the pilgrim path.  He pauses and speaks like a visionary.  It is as if he can see the city set high on a hill even though he is miles and miles away. The choice to speak of Jerusalem from the road is the essence of Luke's gospel.  His account of Jesus is always moving, always walking, passing along the way.   

              And then, of course, there is the matter of violence.  Killing prophets, Jerusalem as the place they die.  The ominous warning of pending doom and death.  Yet, here again is a great example of Luke.  Death, destruction, violence: they are dismissed by Luke as intrusions, fate without fanfare.  Like his description of the crucifixion, Luke speaks of tragedy as if it is already overcome by the victorious Christ.  Tell that old fox I have work to do.  Bid the boatman wait as it is not yet my time.

              Perhaps the voice of Jesus is cavalier because he is so young.  Perhaps he can dismiss the threat of Herod and speak of work to do because he has no expectations of a long life.  Hard to say.  What is clear though is the image of God as heartbroken, sad.  The image of the hen and the chick is tender, but bittersweet because it doesn't happen.  The longing is unfulfilled.  There is no Hallmark holiday movie moment where all the chicks do gather, the wayward son returns, the daughter's heart is restored with kindness so everyone hugs and cries in the end. 

              Perhaps Jesus is cavalier, dismissing the danger because in the end they are not what we can change, what we can overcome.  In the gospels Jesus treats our brokenness, our violence, and our darkness as, well, life.  That is just life.  The good news, the kingdom of God, the hope of redemption is not evading these, the good news, the kingdom of God, the hope of redemption is drawing near, being gathered, surrendering to love.  That is not inevitable.  God wishes it is so.  But will it be?  Or will we be the little blonde boy writhing and flailing; will we speak of crawling up stairs?

              I shared with the staff a few weeks ago, I shared with them my seasonal struggle with amnesia.  I want to sing Christmas carols in Advent.  I do.  I don't like waiting, praying, hoping, singing as if maybe the Christ will come.  Jesus is not in the chreche outside as if he has not yet been born.  In the same way, there is a kind of amnesia to Lent where we refrain from hallelujahs as if we are somehow forgetful of Easter.  So focused on the preparation we are called to dream as if Jesus is yet on the cross. 

              Lost in my seasonal struggle with amnesia, I was surprised by the voice of Luke here.  His order, his choice to place the lament of Jerusalem when Jesus and the disciples were still far off spoke to me.  By speaking of Jerusalem at a distance it was as if he was buying us time, making room for a change of heart.

              Have you ever wondered, considered how strange it is that we must prepare for joy?  Like Jesus we are ready for work, ready to press on, to face danger and risk and challenge.  These we are ready for.  Tell Herod, the old fox, I have work to do.  I get this.  Trust this.  But to be gathered, to be drawn unto a moment of joy, dependence, to trust love, just not the same. 

              This struggle to be held, to be cared for is this what it means to be human?  Maybe advent is not an amnesia but a recognition that we do turn away.  Somewhere in us is a child trying to break free; somewhere in us is an old soul worried about losing independence.  In this way Advent is the slow, patient preparation for joy because we are not ready, we tend to turn away.  Advent is not so much a foggy memory but a clarity: somehow we need to prepare for joy.  We are just not prepared yet; we are ever not ready.

              Full confession, I still want to sing carols in Advent.  But I also don't want to wait for Christmas to give people a present.  If I got you something I want to give it to you today.  And I know there are different views, but I would put the baby Jesus in the nativity the day after Thanksgiving.  The empty manger makes me nervous.  Makes me wonder if somebody took him. 

              O Jerusalem how I have wanted to gather you, but you turned away.  Let us make Advent the time, the season where our hearts are prepared for joy, so prepared for joy we do not turn away.  May the luminaries and candles, be it at 930 or 1100, may the luminaries and candles find a heart ready to be held by love.  Amen. 

Speaker: Rev. Dr. Fred G. Garry

December 14, 2025

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