Luke’s Jesus generally has a strong response to what we might call social-justice situations, so it’s more than a little surprising when he, too, seems to find the horror passe. “Yeah, that happened. Do you really think you’re any better than they were? If you don’t repent, expect the same for yourselves.”

Beware those who “promote Christianity” through domination, division, and fear. No matter their lip-service, they are no servants or friends of God. They are traitors to the cross and enemies of those who would truly follow Jesus.

It’s easy to get distracted during [the Transfiguration] by turning all our attention to the divine displays surrounding Jesus. In fact, that’s what most preachers and theologians (and songs) emphasize about this text—proof of Jesus as God. But if we look past the apparent temporal disruptions and flashing lights, what we observe is a deeply human moment.

…what if Jesus is trying to communicate something even bigger…? What if he isn’t simply telling us how children of God “ought” to behave but is trying to expand our understanding of the nature of who God is and how God “works”?

[1] See Matthew 5 for the alternate version.

…this passage is probably the most obvious contrast we have between the first and third Gospels. Where we as a modern American audience can take Matthew’s words and find ways of inserting ourselves into the text so as to sit among those “blessed,” Luke makes that a lot harder. His first beatitude is simply, “Blessed are the poor.” Not a lot of wiggle room there.

[1] See Matthew 5 for the alternate version.

It might be a little confusing to realize that the Gospel isn’t actually about you or me as individuals. We certainly benefit from it, but none of us is in any way the focus of the Gospel. That’s because the Gospel is about God. The Gospel is the proclamation of God’s character, an explanation of who God really is, brought down to a level that humans can understand.

The true purpose of Christianity has never been simply to have our sins forgiven or to someday go to heaven or to receive any other type of metaphysical reward. Our purpose, the only thing that truly gives our lives lasting meaning, is to embody, here and now, the Jesus that we read about in the New Testament.

Luke’s version of Jesus baptism tends to be familiar to anyone who’s spent much time in church. John the Baptist is yelling at the crowds. Jesus comes along and submits to the ritual, and then a lovely little vision transpires with rays of light and fluttering birds and a supportive parental voice echoing out its love for this individual. It’s sort of a tidy tableau that confirms Jesus’ divinity and then allows us to move on to more important things. For a 1st Century listener, however, this scene is raw sedition.

For the last four Sundays, we here at St. Andrew’s have been taking heed to Advent’s warning: Love is coming. Love—fiery, jealous, all-consuming, and unquenchable Love—draws near, intent on reasserting its reign. This raw and raging Love returns to reestablish our wayward world in its glorious and terrible image.

We look to Mary’s song and hear her rejoice, but have any of us ever really paid attention to what she says? The Magnificat certainly is a song of joy, but it’s a joy found in relief, in escape from oppression and in light of desperately needed kindness and acceptance.

For our ears, it can be difficult to hear anything particularly good about what John says, with his threats about trees being chopped down and burned. But the truth is, John isn’t making threats—nor is God menacing anyone with an axe, for that matter.

Last week we tried to shift our understanding of Advent, redirecting our expectations from the culturally ingrained distraction of readying the house for a baby Jesus to more clearly recognize the reality of this Season, the purpose of which is, in truth, preparation for the Day of the Lord, which is not a pleasant thing.

Generation upon generation has understood Advent as the time we prepare for Jesus’ birth, but that’s not really what we’re supposed to be doing right now. Look at our Bible readings. Each year people complain that the Sundays leading up to Christmas are all filled with doom and gloom—Jesus droning on about “the end of the world” and then John the Baptist warning about vipers and axes and flames.

Humans might be the only earthly creatures that ruin their present existence, health, and happiness by speculating on the future. “Look at the birds of the air.” They continue to survive, even if they don’t have a formal plan for where their next meal will come from.

Christendom wasn’t simply a historical era but the broad adoption of Christianity as the state-sanctioned religion—the union of Church and State—or as I would term it, Church as Empire, Empire being the formally legislated or culturally demanded authorization of oppression—even overt violence—which attempts to ensure both physical and mental conformity throughout a populace.

A happy St. Andrew’s Day to you all—sort of! Those in the know probably recognize that we’re holding this celebration a little early, seeing that the real St. Andrew’s Day takes place on November 30 each year.

This morning we’re going to talk less about our texts and more about our service itself. That may seem an odd choice on All Saints Day, but I promise that we’ll get there.

Job is something of an oddity within the broader Hebrew Bible, not really fitting into the historical books or the prophetic writings. It’s generally grouped with “Wisdom” books, but the text itself directs the reader to question the wisdom we hope it provides.

In both ancient Hebrew and Greco-Roman culture, Wisdom always appears as a woman. Most natural phenomena or psychological constructs, which people then discussed using the terminology of gods, required both masculine and feminine representation in order to maintain a balance between the extremes any single idea might contain. It’s odd, then, that Wisdom has no partner to stand beside her.

Theologians have a history of focusing our attention on the famous piece of fruit, but the first real damage or harm that comes to any person in the story is when Adam blames Eve for his choice to eat. Eve then blames the serpent, and we’ve all just bought into that initial family tradition ever since.