Dream Weaver

December 21, 2025, First Lutheran Church, Throggs Neck, Bronx, N. Y.

 I can see it now, as vividly as if it were yesterday.

My mother is taking my baby brother Larry and me on a morning walk around Morrisville. Larry is in a stroller. I’m 3 years old and walking beside Mommy and Larry. We cross Main Street and turn left on Mill Street. We pause in front of a telephone pole while Mommy leans over the stroller to re-button Larry’s shirt. I point to the looming pole.

“Remember,” I ask, “when I climbed to the top?” Mommy stands and smiles.

“No.”

“But you were right here,” I insisted.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were!”

Mommy smiled and we began walking again. End of conversation.

But I did climb the pole! I remember it so well. And Mommy was there and Larry was there … 

It was, of course, a dream. The walk with Mommy and Larry happened every day, and at one point during nap time I dreamed I had climbed the familiar telephone pole.

And what a powerful dream it was. Even now, 45 years after my mother’s death, the memory of this dream invokes the clearest image I have of her as a pretty young woman. But at 3, I hadn’t sorted out the difference between dream memories and real memories. 

The psychiatrist C.G. Jung raised the question of whether we ever really sort it out. Dreams, Jung said, are windows between our conscious reality and our unconscious spirituality.

“The dream is a little hidden door in the innermost and most secret recesses of the soul,” Jung wrote in The Meaning of Psychology for Modern Man (1933).  Our daily waking experiences overwhelm our ability to remember everything, so we remember some, forget others and lose track of everything else that has happened to us. “But in dreams,” Jung said, “we put on the likeness of that more universal, truer, more eternal man … there he is still in the whole, and the whole is in him … It is from these all-uniting depths that the dream arises, be it never so childish, grotesque, and immoral.” 

Dreams, Jung believed, are spiritual glimpses into memories our brains have forgotten but our souls retain forever.  

But Jung cautioned those who would interpret dreams that these glimpses are not always understandable. “The dream is often occupied with apparently very silly details,” he wrote in On the Psychology of the Unconscious (1953), “this producing an impression of absurdity, or … so unintelligible as to leave us thoroughly bewildered.”

Many years ago I had a dream that was remarkable in its length, plot, color, detail, and unintelligibility – and remarkable in that I have retained so much of it over so many years.

I’m in the large reception hall of a great house. The floor is marble, the dark wood walls are elegantly polished, and a vast staircase spirals upwards toward a dim yellow light. As I watch passively, several two-dimensional heralds who look like fugitives from a stained-glass window enter from the right, their glass feet clicking against the marble floor. The heralds trill their trumpets shrilly and begin to march up the staircase. Pope John Paul II enters from the right and follows the heralds upstairs. The Pope looks harried and tired as he makes his way up the steps. He is surrounded by hundreds of people of all races and ages, chirping in cacophonic unison.  Some are in modern dress, others wear medieval rags, some are adorned with armor, and still others look like cartoons and computer-generated grotesqueries. Their noise intensifies as they process up the stairs. The Pope turns to look at me. He shakes his head and shrugs. As he continues up the staircase, I notice he is wearing black pumps with two-inch heels.

What the heck was that all about? Was I receiving a divine revelation about Saint John Paul II, perhaps a message from on high that the church needs to welcome and affirm all God’s people? Or was it silly nonsense, “producing an impression of absurdity”?

Beats me. Jung said he could not interpret his own dreams, and he pointed out in Psychology and Religion (1938) that the church was reluctant to interpret random dreams. “In spite of the Church's recognition that certain dreams are sent by God,” Jung noted, “she is disinclined, and even averse, to any serious concern with dreams, while admitting that some might conceivably contain an immediate revelation.”

In the case of Joseph, the betrothed of Mary, the dreams are vivid messages from God and require prudent action.

When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus. Matthew 1:18-25.

That’s a remarkable turn of events: Joseph did as the angel of the Lord commanded him.

Thank God Sigmund Freud would not be born for another 1,856 years, because that could have been disastrous. Freud, unlike Jung, believed dreams had no spiritual import but were either erotic in nature or expressions of wish fulfillment. You know. Sex.

How would Dr. Freud have counseled this hurt, confused young man?

“Joseph, my boy, you will never set your anger aside if you don’t face it honestly. You have been a good boy, you have never laid hands on this women who has been betrothed to you. And yet she is with child!. Sure, you’re hurt. Sure, you’re angry. But this dream of yours – forget it! This dream is only your wish that you and Mary could go back to where you were, that nothing would have changed, that you can still possess this woman and make righteous, innocent love to her. But hoping for that and dreaming about it will not make it so. Forget about it.”

Freud would have gone on to advise Joseph that sex is a fundamental human drive and he needed to understand that if he wanted to start all over again. But no one thought like that when Mary found herself with child. What people thought was written down in the Bible:

“If a man commits adultery with the wife of his neighbor, both the adulterer and the adulteress will be put to death,” says Leviticus 20:10, among other verses.   

Maybe Joseph was thinking, hey, the fatherwas probably a Roman soldier and maybe Mary didn’t have a choice. So I’ll just throw the girl out and get on with my life.”

But then Joseph closed his eyes and had a dream. And, there being no Dr. Freud to confuse him, the dream had a profound impact on his thinking and on the history of the world. 

He went to bed a cuckold. He woke up the stepfather of the Son of God. 

That’s a major flip flop. One commentary suggests Joseph’s dream is the first recorded example of post-hypnotic suggestion. 

But the truth is, we know Joseph better than that. We know he is not a weak-minded wood worker subject to mere hypnotic suggestion. He is a good and righteous man. He’s the sort of man who recognizes God’s voice when he hears it, even if it comes in a dream. And he’s the sort of man whose personality is strong enough to withstand the withering stares and judgmental gossip of prying neighbors. His wife is pregnant with God’s son, and Joseph makes a moral decision not to care what anyone else thinks. His message to the neighbors is a brass-age rendition of a modern bumper sticker:  God said it, I believe it, that settles it.

What an extraordinary man, this Joseph. His is a story we hear so often we have stopped wondering what it must have been like for him. He was the oldest son of Jacob, the scion on a patriarchal lineage extending back to Joseph was one of history’s most notable dreamers, a practical man who predated Jung by two millennia but who understood that dreams are windows to the soul. Once Joseph heard God’s message in the stillness of the night, he set a new path and never looked back.

Granted, not all of us have dreams that are as easy to understand as the ones that were visited upon Joseph. And most of us have had dreams that are, as Jung said, unintelligible and occupied with silly details.

But that does not diminish the possibility that our dreams are spiritual experiences, and that they come laden with messages from that part of our unconscious where God speaks to us. 

The next dream you have may be perplexing, confusing and beyond your comprehension. But it can also be an opportunity to reflect on the power of Joseph’s dream, and to embrace all such REM experiences as a potential blessing.

In the hush of the twilight, [writes Timothy Charles Carter]
dreams await,
Slumber beckons, the stars narrate.
Lay down your head, let the night enfold,
Rest your bones, let the dreams take hold.
The pillow soft, a cloud in the sky,
Carries you to where the dreamers lie.
Through the night, may peace be your guest,
In the sacred silence, find your rest.
So close your eyes, the journey’s begun,
To the land where dreams and night are one.
May the moonlight guide you through the flight,
Until dawn returns with the morning light.

The Baptizer in Crisis

 

December 14, 2025, Saint Barnabas Lutheran Church, Howard Beach, Queens, N.Y.

It’s good that we keep Advent joy in our hearts because the scripture this morning is a bit of a downer. 

John the Baptizer is in prison because he because he spoke truth to power. He rebuked the king, Herod Antipas, for divorcing his wife Phasaelis and unlawfully marrying his brother’s wife, Herodias.

There is no way this could end well for John.

We can imagine the Baptizer in a dark cell, trying to keep his spirits up. But he is clearly at the end of the line of his prophetic ministry and doubts begin to cross his mind. In his desolation he calls upon his followers to go to Jesus and ask, 

“Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” (Matthew 11:2-3)

This is a shocking question from Jesus’ own kinsman. John knew all his life that he has been called by God to prepare the way of the Lord. John had seen the heavens open when he baptized Jesus and heard God’s voice express pride and pleasure in God’s son. We can only guess the depth of John’s despair that made him doubt himself, his life, and now he is feeling doubts about the Messiah’s legitimacy. It’s almost as if, in his desperation to restore his faith, he sends a message to Jesus asking, “are you for real? I think you are. But I need to check.”

John, son of Zechariah, was born to play a supporting role for the greatest event in history. He clearly accepted his role, telling his disciples, “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.” 

As far as modern scholars are concerned, John is not number one in the drama of world redemption. He’s number two. In other words, the Baptist is the greatest second banana in history.

But as he sits in his darkened prison, assured of an imminent execution, is he struggling with doubts about this celestial assignment?

We know from objective observation that second bananas are not always content with their second fiddle fare (to expand the metaphor), nor are they enamored with those who cast the shadows in which they walk.

Vice President Thomas Jefferson smiled sardonically as his followers accused President John Adams of having a “hideous hermaphroditical character, which has neither the force and firmness of a man, nor the gentleness and sensibility of a woman.” Jefferson may not have used the words, but he could have said, “I’m Thomas Jefferson and I approve this message.”.

Vice President Harry S Truman described his boss, President Franklin D. Roosevelt, as “the coldest man I ever knew,” and “a faker.”

In fact, virtually every empire and geopolitical entity in the world has had its usurpers. Second Bananaship inevitably fuels a drive to the top job.

Church historians and cynical observers have wondered if John the Baptist was content with the role. Did he, in fact, actually think of himself as a Second Banana?

The biblical and historic record suggests he was an extraordinarily gifted man with a magnetic personality who attracted thousands to his watery warren in the Jordan River and acknowledged no authority but God’s. He had innumerable disciples who followed him faithfully.

John’s father, Zechariah, foresaw a starring role for the boy:

“And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High; for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, to give knowledge of salvation to his people by the forgiveness of their sins. By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.” (Luke 1:76-79)

 If there was ever a religious or political leader qualified to think of himself as number one, it was John the Baptist. He is one of a small handful of bible characters who appear outside the bible. He is mentioned by the Jewish historian Josephus and he plays a prophetic role in the Qur’an. Sufi Muslims hold John in high regard because of the Qur’an’s account of his astute wisdom, unfailing kindness, and sexual purity.

Most of us find it hard to respect Second Bananas, or to trust them to be loyal to the person at the top. History is too full of Second Bananas who were driven to push their bosses aside and snatch the power away.  

Ideally, Second Bananas should not threaten their bosses. And John the Baptist was no comical sidekick, so some scholars have had difficulty thinking of him as a prophet who would be comfortable as a number two.

The skepticism is understandable because it is so difficult to accept the logic of Jesus’ oxymoronic declaration: “So the last will be first and the first will be last.” (Matthew 20:16)

Jesus also made it clear what happens to Second Bananas who seek to usurp power:

“You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. It will not be so among you; but whoever wishes to be first among you must also be your slave; just as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” (Matthew 20: 25-28)

Perhaps no one in history had a more important supporting role than John the Baptist.

He was, by his own declaration, not the Messiah. His role was to prepare the way, to call people to repentance, to remind them of the preeminence of God in human lives, and to open their hearts and minds to the coming of Jesus.

That may be only a supporting role, but it’s a great one.

When the imprisoned John asked Jesus if he was actually the Messiah, Jesus responds with understanding and love.

Jesus answered them, 

“Go and tell John what you hear and see:  the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, those with a skin disease are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.”

And Jesus shows he has not lost faith in John:

As they went away, Jesus began to speak to the crowds about John: 

“What did you go out into the wilderness to look at? A reed shaken by the wind. What, then, did you go out to see? Someone dressed in soft robes? Look, those who wear soft robes are in royal palaces.  What, then, did you go out to see? A prophet? Yes, I tell you, and more than a prophet.  This is the one about whom it is written,

‘See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you.

    who will prepare your way before you.’

 “Truly I tell you, among those born of women no one has arisen greater than John the Baptist.

This is the testimony of Jesus the Christ.

William Drummond, the 17th century English poet, offered his testimony in stirring verse:

THE last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King,
Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,
Which he than man more harmless found and mild.
His food was locusts, and what young doth spring
With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;
Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.
There burst he forth: 'All ye, whose hopes rely
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn;
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!'
—Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?
        Only the echoes, which he made relent,
        Rung from their marble caves 'Repent! Repent!'

Amen.

Advance Man

December 7, 2025, Saint Barnabas Lutheran Church, Howard Beach, Queens, N.Y.

By modern standards, John Baptist was one of the worst advance men in history.

Rather than cultivate religious insiders, he called them vipers and told them they were going to hell. No wonder they were in such a bad mood when Jesus arrived.

In modern times, the role of the advance team is to attract crowds, warm them with compliments and jokes, and get them excited about the great leader who will soon follow.

Months before Billy Graham opened an evangelistic campaign, Cliff Barrows, George Beverly Shea and dozens more would descend on the city, schmooze with clergy and politicians, recruit choir members, anoint ushers, and get everyone excited about the coming of the great man. I sat in on some of those advance meetings prior to Billy’s 1967 London crusade. By the time the advance team was finished, I was convinced that only Billy’s presence could save millions of Londoners from hell.

John the Baptist's style of telling the good news  was to talk about the realm of God and how wonderful it will be when Jesus arrives, and in the second he was condemning influential religious leaders to unquenchable fire. 

As a journalist, I knew several persons who did advance work for politicians. Many of them were indeed nicer than the pol they served, and it takes enormous skill to make reporters on deadline feel okay that the boss had little time to waste on them.

I have also done a little advance work for traveling ecumenical leaders or church hierarchs who liked to meet with the press. In 1998 the World Council of Churches sent a colleague, Sonia Omulepu, and me on a trip around Zimbabwe to assess hotels, game parks and other recreational activities for persons attending the eighth assembly of the WCC in Harare.

What we assessed was that some airport runways in Zimbabwe had not, in 1998, caught up to jet travel. Sonia and I boarded a British BAe-146-300 regional aircraft that hopscotched its way to several small airports around the country. 

The runways were too short for jets and the aircraft had to slam on its brakes to keep from charging into the bush. We scarcely noticed the seatbelts grabbing at our bellies because we were distracted by the acrid smell of burning brakes.

Our particular aircraft had lost the cooling agent to reduce the temperature of the brakes so each time we landed we had to sit on the plane for an hour until the brakes were cool enough to use. 

The short runways also made takeoffs difficult. There wasn’t enough room for the plane to accelerate normally to liftoff speed so the pilot held the aircraft at the end of the runway until the engine reached a deafening pitch; then the plane lunged forward as passengers were slammed roughly against the backs of their seats. We felt the G’s as the plane soared into the air. 

What the advance team of Omulepu and Jenks found was one of the most beautiful countries in the world, with spectacular scenery including Victoria Falls, modern farms, exotic game preserves, Zambezi River cruises, comfortable hotels, and excellent restaurants.

But our message to the six thousand assembly visitors eager to visit the country was concise: take the bus.

John the Baptist’s advance work was invariably rude and hardly designed to comfort his audiences. Still, he attracted huge crowds. People may have been as impressed by his honesty as by his assurance that God will forgive the repentant. Certainly folks enjoyed his verbal attacks on the overweening aristocracy, the Pharisees and Sadducees. 

They would certainly have noted his warning that their salvation would not depend on being a member of a great ancestral lineage recognized by God. 

“Do not presume to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor’, he said. “For I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.”

We can understand what it’s like to be proud of our ancestry. My grandfather Addison was a perfunctory Methodist, though no member of my family recalls seeing him in church. His real religion was a form of ancestor worship. He believed the family name would be enhanced if he could trace its roots to a great ancestor, such as a Mayflower pilgrim.

Perhaps in Heaven I will have a chance to ask Grandpa what the big deal was about the Mayflower, which was filled with puritans of the same ilk as Oliver Cromwell, who missed the boat and stayed home to slaughter thousands of Catholics in Ireland. Later, the puritans in America jailed and flogged Baptists on the public square in Boston and hanged innocent women as witches in Salem. 

I think it makes more sense to be ashamed of a puritan ancestry, but Grandpa was pleased to prove – to his satisfaction, at least – that he was a descendant of Mayflower passenger Elizabeth Tilley. That makes me a Mayflower descendant. I am so ashamed.

The central theme of John the Baptist’s message is this: 

“I baptize you with water for repentance, but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor and will gather his wheat into the granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”

Even as a child, John knew that his calling was to prepare the way for the ministry of the messiah.

As an advance man, he had a distinct disadvantage. He didn’t know the whole story. He didn’t know how it would turn out. And sometimes he was puzzled when Jesus reached out in love to everyone, even the brood of vipers John assumed the messiah would consign to unquenchable fire.

With that in mind, we can certainly understand John’s brusque demeanor and eccentric ways. He may not have been the best advance man in the world. But he was a faithful prophet who understood God offers love and forgiveness to all who repent.

But we, who have the advantage of knowing how the story came out, know that Jesus took it a step further.

God, Jesus said, loves each of us unconditionally – the repentant and the unrepentant – and God will send no one to eternal fire without giving them abundant chances to turn back to God.

And the message assigned to you and me, as members of Jesus’ advance team, is the eternal declaration of angels:

“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those who he favors.” Luke 2:14

Watch Before the Flood

November 30, First Lutheran Church, Throggs Neck, Bronx, N.Y.

The Heinz family, that singular conglomeration of aristocratic noblesse oblige, didn’t get rich by underestimating the American people.

When they made their luxuriously thick ketchup, they realized they had a potential problem. The ketchup was so dense you could hold the bottle upside down for what seemed like hours before the first drop would dribble on to your cheeseburger. Almost no one in the United States has that kind of patience and the Heinz people feared millions would desert their delicious condiment in favor of Brand B, some thin, runny, but instantly available tomato liquid. Brand B offered lower satisfaction, perhaps, but instant gratification.

In 1979, with the aim of stemming the migration away from their viscous product, the Heinz people implemented a TV ad you may remember well. Two boys are shown patiently holding a Heinz ketchup bottle over their hamburgers as the first drops of red goo begin to form at the bottle’s mouth. In the background, Carly Simon sings: “Anticipation. Anticipation. It’s making me wait.” In the 32-second commercial, the boys have plenty of time to decide postponed gratification is good. As the scene closes, the words appear on the screen: “Heinz Ketchup. The taste that’s worth the wait.”

There you go. An Advent sermon in a single sentence. The taste that’s worth the wait.

This singular phrase, historic in the ad business, is a helpful clue as we parse the curious passage placed before us today. This is not only the first Sunday in Advent, but the first Sunday of Year A, the year of Matthew.

The passage quotes Jesus’ prediction of the end times. It is not very Christmassy. There is no babe in the manger poetry, no paeans to the Christ child, no glory to God in the highest, no peace on earth. Instead, we are warned that the end times will come without warning and we must stay awake or we’ll miss it. We’ll be eating and drinking and playing computer games and the flood will come without warning and sweep us away.

That’s not Silent Night. That’s Johnny Cash singing, God’s Gonna Cut You Down. It’s always a bit disconcerting when the first Sunday in Advent brings dark warnings of the collapse of all we know? Where are the tidings of great joy?

The passage in Matthew, like its counterparts in Mark and the Revelation to John, is the basis for the expectation of the rapture, that at the end of time Jesus will appear in the clouds and send out his angels to collect his elect from the four winds.

Rapture theology can be distracting and even dangerous, as you may recall if you were watching for the end of the world on September 23. Believers quit jobs and liquified bank accounts expecting to be swept into heaven on that beautiful fall day

And suddenly it was September 24 and nothing happened.

Each year there are numerous predictions of the Rapture and they don't happen either.

This is not what Jesus is talking about when he said the Son of Man is coming when we least expect it.

“The Bible does not contain hidden codes that we are to find and decipher,” writes Al Mohler, a conservative theologian and Baptist seminary president. “While Christians are indeed to be looking for Christ to return and seeking to be found faithful when Christ comes, we are not to draw a line in history and set a date.”

Advent, like the Heinz Ketchup commercial, is a time of waiting. And a time of wakefulness.

For me, and perhaps for many others who have served in the military, it’s a little bit like guard duty on a cold, dark night.

I was an Air Force chaplain’s assistant in England in the mid-sixties and the brass kept us in a perpetual state of anticipation by calling practice alerts several times a month. The siren usually sounded in the middle of the night and we would be ordered out of our warm beds, crammed into a rickety bus that smelled of leaking petrol, and transported to the flight line. There we would be issued World War II era M-1 carbines, placed on a small truck, and taken to our posts.

The guard duty would last about six hours. I’m sure I pulled a lot of it in spring or summer but mostly I remember cold, dark winter nights, pacing in front of an F-100 super saber jet uploaded with tactical nuclear weapons. The night was quiet in the English fog and I couldn’t see more than a few  feet away.

My orders were clear and simple. Stay awake. Wait and be alert until the sergeant comes around to relieve you. What was not so clear was what I should do if the plane was suddenly attacked by a mad Russian or Baader Meinhof terrorists. Form a discussion group?

Wait. Do not sleep. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to sleep on guard duty because it would endanger your unit, yourself, and the people you’re protecting. There are many stories in military lore of sleeping guards who were jailed or sentenced to hang.

But in the middle of a long, cold night, as you pull your GI parka around you, surrendering to its warmth, sleep is an almost irresistible temptation. And I won’t say I never drifted off on guard duty. But I did develop a remarkable talent for sleeping standing up. I would pass the time writing rock songs in my head, or thinking of the warm, sweet tea and delicious biscuits that would be available in the guard room when it was over.

Wait. Stay awake.

This is exactly what Jesus is asking us to do as Advent begins.

Catherine Sider Hamilton, professor of New Testament and Greek at the University of Toronto, writes, 

“Advent is the time the church year gives us to remember what we know. The day of the Lord is coming: Be ready. Get ready! In the midst of the eating and drinking and marrying, the Christmas preparations and parties, the cookie-baking and shopping, Advent gives people time to remember what we know. It is Jesus who is coming, now as a child at Christmas, to be God-with-us in forgiveness and grace; then, on that day of God, as Lord of all, in righteousness and truth.”

The future, for many of us, is a very scary place because so little is known about it. No matter how hard we try to live virtuous lives, all of us have fallen far short of perfection – and the future, we fear, is where all our chickens come home to roost.

This month when we watch the inevitable rebroadcasts of Charles Dicken’s A Christmas Carol (if you only have time for one, I recommend the 1992 Muppets version) the ghost of Christmas yet to come is the creepiest character of all – not because of his menacing cowl and skeletal fingers, but because he shows Scrooge his own just desserts, the righteous judgment on the grasping, self-obsessed life he has led. It is Scrooge, not the ghost, who is the chilling character in these scenes. Ebenezer’s life of depraved indifference to the poor leaves him no chance of heavenly reward, and he knows it. He fears the ghost of Christmas future most of all. He has no hope of relief, no promise of the joys of postponed gratification, so his anticipation of the ghost’s awful truth is agony for him.

“Anticipation. Anticipation. It’s making me wait.” And the anticipation is hell.

Most of us, perhaps, have less to worry about than Ebenezer Scrooge, but at Christmas time we’d still rather trill with Silver Bells than pulsate with apocalyptic cannonade.

Given all this, it will take a little discipline to remind ourselves: when we anticipate the coming of Jesus, there is no difference between welcoming him as an innocent child or as a rescuing savior.

Theologian Karoline Lewis  offers reassuring words: “The darkening of the sun, the dimming of the moon's light, and the stars falling from heaven means the end of the world as we have known it. That death will be no more because God will die is something to anticipate during Advent. This is not to be a downer just when Bing really kicks into high gear with White Christmas. It’s to speak the truth, about ourselves and our unrealistic expectations; about God and how God exceeds them.”

Advent begins, and there will be many joys to share in the coming weeks: the Advent wreaths, the manger tableaus, the pageants, the lights, the presents, the family gatherings, and the familiar carols.

The Advent message, as always, is that the Creator of the Universe has taken on human flesh, coming to us in the form of a powerless, innocent infant.

And the message is also that God, through this child, has come to die on a cross, conquer death, and ultimately to return to gather those who have been redeemed in loving arms.

What does it matter if the flood overwhelms us if death has been defeated and a new, more perfect life begins?

The bottom line on the first Sunday in Advent is this: the coming of Jesus is good news.

And our Advent prayer is to savor the anticipation of the miracles yet to come.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Our King

November 23, 2025, Saint Barnabas Lutheran Church, Howard Beach, Queens, N.Y.

This is Christ the King Sunday.

Somewhere along the way, church wordsmiths renamed it “Reign of Christ” Sunday. All kings are dudes, they reasoned, and it seemed chauvinistic to refer to Jesus as a King.

It is also difficult for us dwellers of the 21st century to identify with kings, kingdoms. 

The monarch most of us can name is the fondly remembered Queen Elizabeth II of Great Britain, but we fully understand she was merely glitter on the ordinariness of a pinstriped parliamentary democracy. She had no power and even the most miscreant members of her court know they can safely misbehave without losing their heads.

It has been a long time since there were monarchs around we could look up to as metaphors to help us comprehend the ascendant royalty of Jesus. 

But when have kings and kingdoms ever been a useful analogy to help people understand Jesus? 

Even those who first heard the comparison might have thought immediately of King Herod or the Emperor Tiberius, both known for their brutality and debauchery.

Or, if the more scripturally literate chose to reflect on Kings David or Solomon, it would be instantly clear that neither one of them was Christlike. David was an adulterer who consummated his enamors by having Bathsheba’s husband neatly dispatched, and Solomon was an enthusiastic polygamist whose wives led him down the path to serial to idolatry (I Kings 11:9-13).

Has there ever been a monarch whose reign reminded us of God’s reign? It is, in fact, very difficult to survey the monarchies of Europe, Asia, or Africa without reaching the conclusion the kings and queens were, with few exceptions, murderously megalomaniacal and calculatingly cruel. 

Even the greatest rulers – Henry VIII, Catherine the Great, Shaka Zulu, Emperor Jai Jing – survived by killing, jailing, or torturing their challengers. 

Even so, it’s obvious that peoples over the centuries tended to revere their kings, especially if the king kept the peace, made it possible for the surfs to live without starving, and kept pogroms to a minimum. 

Many of us like to think standards of good kinging were established in the legends of King Arthur and popularized by librettist Alan Jay Lerner and composer Frederick Loewe in Camelot:

Camelot! Camelot! 

I know it gives a person pause,

But in Camelot, Camelot

Those are the legal laws.

The snow may never slush upon the hillside.

By nine p.m. the moonlight must appear.

In short, there's simply not

A more congenial spot

For happily-ever-aftering than here

In Camelot.

Camelot might tempt us to compare it to the reign of God, but as we English majors know, the realm eventually collapsed in seduction and treachery.

In Shalom Aleichem’s Fiddler on the Roof, we detect a more realistic picture of how people revere their monarchs. When the rabbi is asked if there is a prayer for the Tsar, he replies, “May the Lord bless and keep the Tsar – far away from us.” No doubt that was a familiar prayer in all cultures.

But if kings and queens were never good models for Christ the King, they became even less so after the First World War when most of the monarchies of Europe were wiped away, and the monarchs who survived became empty fronts for democratically elected prime ministers. 

So when we think of “Christ the King,” what is it, exactly, that we are supposed to imagine?

When I was in college, I occasionally worshipped in a Mennonite living room church pastored by Dr. John L. Ruth, professor of English at Eastern Baptist College. John wore the traditional Mennonite plain coat, which made him look distinctly unworldly (unless one mistook his garb for a Nehru jacket). 

In fact, he had a Ph.D. from Harvard and he was an important mentor for me during my undergraduate years.

John never stopped being a Mennonite pastor, and worship services in his small house were quietly spiritual and occasionally unpredictable. 

One Sunday the sermon was provided by a vinyl LP record: Jesus Christ, Superstar.

I don’t recall ever hearing of the popular musical before then. As he put the disc on his ancient turntable, John said, “It probably doesn’t mean anything to us when we talk about Christ the King. What other metaphors would give us a clearer idea of who Jesus is and the kind of impact he has on society and our individual lives?”

As the needle began to hiss on the record, John said: “How about, ‘Superstar’?”

Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ

Who are you? What have you sacrificed?

Jesus Christ Superstar

Do you think you're what they say you are?

Tell me what you think about your friends at the top

Who'd you think besides yourself's the pick of the crop

Buddha was he where it's at? Is he where you are?

Could Mahomet move a mountain or was that just PR?

Did you mean to die like that? Was that a mistake or

Did you know your messy death would be a record-breaker?

Don't you get me wrong - I only wanna know

Jesus as superstar was an interesting idea in the late sixties. Mass media shined klieg lights on certain individuals and raised them far above mere mortals. Back then it was Elvis, not one of the Windsors, who was King. The Beatles attracted more people to their concerts than any church. John Lennon didn’t lie when he said, fully realizing the irony, “We’re more popular than Jesus.”

On Christ the King Sunday, are there any regal models we can point to as examples of what the reign of Christ is like?

That seems hardly likely. Jesus gave us a large hint about those who would be models of Christ’s reign when the mother of James and John came to Jesus and asked him to make her sons superstars. 

Jesus replied, whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be your slave; just as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.” Matthew 20:20-28

There was certainly no one lowlier or more obscure than the thief who found himself crucified next to Jesus, and no one can say this man lived a virtuous life. But he recognized God’s marvelous light when so many around him were blind to it. And by using his last agonized breaths to declare his faith, Jesus welcomed him into the royal priesthood of the reign of Christ.

Kendra A. Mohn, lead pastor of Trinity Lutheran Church in Fort Worth, Texas, notes that it is in this moment of humiliation and connection on the cross that Jesus embodies the ultimate act of love and forgiveness. Using his power to grant mercy to others, even those actively hurting him, underscores how deeply grace is indicative of the reign of Christ. And it compels those who follow Jesus to take this call seriously in their own lives and relationships. 

Are we ready to extend grace to those around us, even when it is difficult? 

What if they actively work against our best interests? 

Are we willing to embrace the radical love that Jesus exemplifies? 

Honesty with these questions will mean seeing ourselves in an unflattering mirror. Our resistance to these questions signifies our limitations and our need for Jesus’ forgiveness. We begin to see that it is only God’s action that can move us to acts of true selflessness, participating in the reign of Christ. 

Christ the King Sunday invites us to see who our king really is, in contrast to the glittery, jewel adorned, gold plated kings of our human experience.

Our king is a carpenter with dirty fingernails.

Our king is a sweaty, working class laborer.

Our king does not have guards protecting him from the unruly crowds but walks among them, responding to their needs, preaching and healing until he is too tired to stand.

Oue king is love, compassion, a refuge for strangers, and a drum major for justice.

Our king, “though he existed in the form of God,

    did not regard equality with God

    as something to be grasped,

but emptied himself,

    taking the form of a slave,

    assuming human likeness.

And being found in appearance as a human,

he humbled himself

    and became obedient to the point of death—

    even death on a cross. (Philippians 2:6-8)

Come, Thou Almighty King.

Amen.

All Hallows Ride

 

November 2, 2025. Saint Barnabas Lutheran Church, Howard Beach, Queens, N.Y.

On All Saints Sunday we remember those who have gone on before us. Close to our hearts today are parents, siblings, dear friends, neighbors, and other loved ones we miss and will never forget.

Our faith assures us that these saints are not gone forever but dwell in a great crowd of witnesses. Our memories of how they lived their lives, for good or ill, will continue to guide us. Long after they are gone we remember a partner’s intimacy, a mother’s wisdom, a father’s guidance, a teacher’s insights, a mentor’s vision, or a friend’s companionship. It’s not unusual for a grieving widow to sense the unseen presence of her late husband, or for a heartbroken parent to feel the eternal spirit of a lost child.

All Saints Sunday, traditionally, is the day when lost loved ones on the other side of the veil come closer to us.

In Mexico, this closeness is celebrated as Dia de los Muertos, the day of the dead. 

You have no doubt seen decorated skeleton figures with brightly painted skulls, a common symbol of the holiday.

During Día de Muertos, the tradition is to build private altars (ofrendas) containing the favorite foods and beverages, as well as photos and memorabilia, of the departed. The intent is to encourage visits by the souls, so the souls will hear the prayers and the words of the living directed to them. These altars are often placed at home or in public spaces such as schools and libraries, but it is also common for people to go to cemeteries to place these altars next to the tombs of the departed.

A delightful depiction of the holiday is Coco, a Disney film about a young boy seeking his musical hero in the realm of the dead. If you haven’t seen it, I’m sure you’ll find it wonderful.

As the departed members of the crowd of witnesses comes closer to us this All Saints Sunday, I wonder what they might think of the turmoil and divisions that preoccupy us, the living. Our forebears have lived through bright times and dark times, wars and peace, economic depressions and rich prosperity. They have experienced racism and homophobia, both as haters and as the hated. They prayed that the Word of God and the love of Christ guide them through our lives. Now it’s our turn. What does Jesus have to say to us today about our membership in God’s Kingdom?

In his sermon on the plain, so called to distinguish it from the sermon on the mount, Jesus presents a clear vision of the Kingdom of God. This vision is a radical departure from the ways of the world – then and now – and it requires a commitment to discipleship that is difficult and often dangerous.

In Matthew’s version of the sermon on the mount, Jesus cites beatitudes in the third person, “Blessed are the poor … Blessed are those who mourn … Blessed are the meek …” (Mt 5:1-11)

I imagine if I were in this crowd I’d be looking around to see who Jesus is talking about. If I’m not poor, if I’m not mourning, if I’m not particularly meek, I’d nevertheless be impressed that Jesus is promising blessings to those who are. But I wouldn’t assume he is talking about me.

Notice the change of tense in the sermon on the plain. Professor John T. Carroll of Union Presbyterian Seminary in Richmond, Virginia, explains it like this:

“Unlike Matthew’s third-person beatitudes, the entire set of blessings and woes in Luke is cast in the second-person plural ‘you.’ The disciples—and we who listen with them—are addressed directly and intimately. This is about us! And what we hear is a stunningly countercultural vision of the life of those who follow Jesus, of life and relationship within the realm of God. The reversals are extreme.”

“Blessed are you who are poor … Blessed are you who are hungry …Blessed are you who weep.” 

Jesus is talking to us!

The commentary in our handy Lutheran study bibles makes it plain:

“The situation of the poor, hungry, and weeping will be reversed. The lowly are lifted up, and the powerful are brought down, the hungry are filled, and the rich are sent away empty.”

Our study bible also poses discussion questions to challenge our thinking:

“The way things usually are in the world is turned upside-down in Luke 20-26. What might be dangerous about thinking the world needs to be turned upside-down (or maybe right-side-up) like this? What might be dangerous about thinking that this should not happen?”

It’s easy to see the potential dangers in the most radical messages in Luke 6 – commandments that are inescapably addressed not only to the disciples, not only to the crowd, but to you and me, too.

“But I say to you who are listening: Love your enemies; do good to those who hate you; bless those who curse you; pray for those who mistreat you. If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also, and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to everyone who asks of you, and if anyone takes away what is yours, do not ask for it back again. Do to others as you would have them do to you.”

These are not only radical commandments. They are also counterintuitive. 

In another time, in another century, I was a Sunday school teacher in a small African American Baptist Church in Conshohocken, Pennsylvania.

My class consisted of seventh grade girls and they regarded me with some suspicion. Their mothers had dressed them in clean dresses, white ankle socks, and pretty ribbons in their hair. That probably made me less cautious than I should have been.

I was teaching Luke 6 and I wasn’t sure I was communicating because the girls were staring glassy-eyed at me. But I did manage to get their attention.

“Jesus,” I said with genial authority, “said, ‘Love your enemies.’”

Their mouths dropped open.

“No, he didn’t,” said one girl, also with a note of authority.

Another girl frowned and shook her head.

“That’s stupid.”

“No, really,” I said, holding out my bible so they could read it themselves.

They were unconvinced.

“Jesus wouldn’t last a day in our school,” said the first girl.

Their skepticism deepened when I got to the part about turning the other c cheek.

“Anybody hit me,” said the smallest girl in the class, “I’ll beat ‘em to a pulp.”

Lesson learned – by me, not them. It was rarely so clear to me just how radical Jesus is.

Lutheran Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer, author of The Cost of Discipleship, put it this way:

"The love for our enemies takes us along the way of the cross and into fellowship with the Crucified. The more we are driven along this road, the more certain is the victory of love over the enemy's hatred. For then it is not the disciple's own love, but the love of Jesus Christ alone, who for the sake of his enemies went to the cross and prayed for them as he hung there." 

We know so well that the way of the cross cannot be easy. 

This is a dark period in our history. Mass shootings occur almost every day, more than 340 since January. A bizarre sect that calls itself Christian Nationalism has risen that considers empathy and compassion to be weaknesses, that says it’s okay to hate, that seeks to force others to conform to their rigid code of moral conduct, that causes LGBTQ persons to live in constant dread, that threatens the lives of women with its demands to control their bodies, that condones the mass round-ups of people, mostly persons of color and often our neighbors, to be sent to detention centers or cruel foreign prisons without due process of law.

This sect of Christianity has taken the words of Jesus and turned them upside down and inside out.

Now it falls to us, the living, to serve as apostles of Jesus’ message of love and justice as he preached it in his sermon on the plain.

Professor Carroll asks: “What is the endgame for cycles of harm and vengeance, writ so large in our own time? There is no soft and easy message to proclaim from this text. It is the sort of message that could get one crucified by the empire. 

“On All Saints Sunday, though, it is perhaps worth remembering those saints across the centuries who have dared to love enemies, even at great personal cost.”

And we will never forget them.

Fire and Reform

October 26, 2025, Saint Barnabas Lutheran Church, Howard Beach, Queens, N.Y.

 [Sermon originally preached October 27, 2024 at St Paul's Lutheran Church, Rye Brook, N.Y.]

When Reformation Sunday comes around every year, I think of an old friend I knew through the National and World Councils of Churches. 

I met Father Leonid Kishkovsky in the 1970s when we were both young ecumenists representing our churches on these councils. 

Back then, Leonid, a Russian-born priest in the Orthodox Church in America, wore a black cassock and parted his long hair in the middle. His beard and dour expression made me think of Rasputin. 

Leonid was a quintessential Orthodox priest. I told him that when I was a young Air Force chaplain’s assistant in October 1967 I visited Rome. 

“That was the time Patriarch Athenagoras I was there to confer with Pope Paul,” I said. Leonid raised his eyebrows. 

“The Pope and the Patriarch concelebrated a mass at the high altar,” I added. 

Leonid shook his head. 

“No they didn’t,” he said. 

“Yes,” I persisted. “That’s what the church media called it.” 

“Impossible,” Leonid said. “They may have stood together at the altar but it could not have been concelebrated.” 

I replied that as a Baptist layman I could not have made the word up but he was unmoved. 

Later, during one of the National Council of Churches’ worship celebrations of Reformation, I sat next to Leonid. He leaned over and whispered, “We don’t observe Reformation Sunday,” he said, referring to Orthodox churches. “We did not have a reformation. Didn’t need one.” 

Whether they need reforming or not, in most Orthodox churches, the liturgy, ministry, and requirements for ordination have not changed in twelve hundred years. 

Leonid became an archpriest in the Orthodox Church in America and retired to serve as pastor of a church on Long Island. He became ill and, toward the end, preached in a wheel chair. He died in August 2021, may his memory be eternal! 

For Christians who are not Orthodox, Reformation Sunday, if not a high holy day, is a time to reflect on how the church has evolved over the centuries. 

When the reformers risked their lives to translate scripture into the vernacular, it was a revelation. Nowhere in the bible were references to popes, bishops, priestly celibacy, or Purgatory. Soon, thanks to the invention of the printing press in the fifteenth century, these truths were spread far and wide. The established church was threatened and the Reformation was on. 

Imagine the amazement of people who were told that good works was the only way to get into heaven when they read this passage in their own language: 

“For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one should boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus, for good works…” (Ephesians 2:8-9) 

We have so much to thank these early reformers for, particularly the realization that we are saved by faith, and that no one – no pope, no bishop, no priest – stands between the individual sinner and God. 

Thus Reformation Sunday is a day for rejoicing and gratitude for those who came before us, including Martin Luther, who never intended to found a church named for him. As Luther famously said, “While I was drinking beer, God reformed the church.” 

But we would be doing these early reformers a disservice if our rejoicing did not include a sobering awareness of what they faced. The penalty for reform was invariably torture and fiery death at the stake. 

It’s difficult for us to fully appreciate what they went through. 

The late British writer C.J. Sansom wrote seven novels that paint a vivid and horrifying picture of the state of the church under the erratic and unpredictable reforms of Henry VIII. The novels offer detailed descriptions of life in medieval England, the smells, the sewage troughs in the middle streets, the multi-tiered caste system from King to peasant. The novels are written in the voice of Matthew Shardlake, a hunchback lawyer who struggles against his disability to solve crimes and brush against such personages as Thomas Cromwell, Thomas Cranmer, Queen Catherine Howard, and Henry VIII himself. 

In his book Lamentation, Sansom draws us into the dark side of the Reformation when King Henry vacillates on what his people should believe, what they should read, and how they must worship. People who guessed wrong what the King wants them to do at any given time face painful deaths. 

One of the most disturbing scenes in the book involves Anne Askew, a 25-year-old anabaptist reformer who claimed the authority of the Holy Spirit over the king. She was arrested by devious officials who plotted to depose Henry’s sixth and final wife, Queen Catherine, because they suspected she was a closet reformer. They tortured Anne Askew on the rack to force her to reveal that Catherine was one of her supporters. 

But Anne never talked. 

Sansom’s description of the rack is not for the squeamish. We hear the groaning of the ropes and the cracking of Anne’s joints and her screams, we struggle to breathe in the hot humidity of the torture room, we smell the foul sweat of the men pulling at the rack. 

Anne Askew was the only woman to be tortured on the rack prior to being burned at the stake because King Henry, in his tender wisdom, forbad women to suffer this fate. For that reason, the torturers were careful to hide their identities. 

Anne’s body was so broken by the rack that she could not stand. She was tied to a chair and taken to the place of execution where she was chained to the stake in an upright position. 

It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to smell the acrid smoke and feel the flames as they climbed her body. According to some reports – accepted by Sansom in his fictional account – Anne’s suffering did not last long. In a spirit of Christian compassion her executioners tied a bag of gun powder around her neck. It exploded almost immediately, ending her agony and blowing her head off. 

It all began five hundred and seven years ago this Halloween when Martin Luther nailed his Ninety-Five Theses to the door of All Saints Church in Wittenberg. We celebrate this relatively benign but courageous fact today. 

But it’s not as simple as that. The truth is, if he had his way, Luther would have nailed a few Anabaptists to the door, too. And Jews. And the Pope. The defacing of the Wittenberg door was the ominous prelude to decades of burnings, beheadings, torture, and other primitive forms of hermeneutical discussion. 

Luther, who spent much of his life hiding from Catholic assassins, would have readily immolated the odd Mennonite or Jew whose theology he found abhorrent. 

Luther was complicated. Among other things, he was a bona fide prophet. God spoke through him with blinding clarity. 

But Luther also spoke for himself, and on those occasions he was often wrong. He was a typical sixteenth century European Christian who bristled with anti-Semitism and xenophobia and he bristled brisker than most. Had his glowering imperfections been less obvious, his followers might have elevated him to the demigod status of Joseph Smith or Mary Baker Eddy. 

Whether Luther actually defaced the Wittenberg door with nails is a matter of dispute, but historians are clear that he sent the theses to his bishop, Albert of Mainz, on October 31, 1517. They were not a demand for comprehensive church reform but a complaint about the sale of indulgences, a papal racket for selling tickets to heaven. 

The Disputation of Martin Luther on the Power and Efficacy of Indulgences was the opening salvo of the Protestant Reformation. Pope Leo X, who depended on indulgences to continue living in the manner to which he was accustomed, was alarmed by Luther’s disputation and eventually excommunicated him. His Holiness also dispatched goon squads in search of Luther’s hoary head. 

Ironically, the sale of indulgences has never gone away completely. There are still church fundraisers that suggest a donation of $5 will assure the attentiveness of the Blessed Mother to prayers. And scores of television evangelists, most of whom scorn both Lutherans and Catholics, raise millions by promising that contributions to their ministries will bring “special blessings” that undoubtedly include heaven. 

Luther’s point was that with God’s grace, salvation is achieved by faith alone. That was a revolutionary revelation that relieved a heavy burden from sinners who saw themselves struggling futilely to please a vengeful God. We Lutherans are beneficiaries of Martin Luther’s teaching that only the Holy Spirit can give us faith and we cannot do it ourselves. We are not among those who go around asking each other, “Have you found Jesus?” Through grace Jesus has found us. 

Salvation by faith remains a wonderful idea, and it’s too bad Pope Leo X couldn’t see it. It’s also too bad that the reformers themselves sometimes lost sight of it. 

But times change and we Christians are no longer immolating each other. Today Pope Leo XIV warmly embraces Lutherans and Cardinal Timothy Dolan of New York (who knew he was a Luther scholar?) acknowledges “the church needed reforming” in 1517. One can even see the day in the not-too-distant future when Lutherans and Catholics will share the same communion elements of bread and wine at a common table. 

The ideal result of the Reformation will be when Lutherans and Catholics share a common priesthood, but that day seems far off. The Evangelical Lutheran Church in America ordains women as pastors - ministers of Word and Sacrament - and consecrates women as bishops. But the otherwise open-minded Pope is not likely to go there. So for those who believe it is essential for the church to embrace the gifts of all who are called to ministry, regardless of gender, there is still reforming to be done. 

As we look forward to the perfect unity of a reformed church, it may be good to keep in mind that Reformation has always been imperfect, often brutal, and slow to embrace the insight that Luther saw in his more gracious moments: that persons are redeemed by faith, not dogma, and by God’s grace, not priestly intercession. 

True reformation may be a long ways off, but by God’s grace it will come. 

Like the long, slow moral arc of the universe, the arc of reformation bends inexorably toward unity.