January 17, 2021 (Epiphany 2)
1 Samuel 3:1-10, (11-20); John 1:43-51
My daughter Maya was the New Year’s Eve party planner at my house. She brainstormed activities and wrote them on little pieces of paper to put inside a bunch of balloons. Every half hour, we were supposed to pop a balloon and do whatever it said inside. At about 7:00, we popped our first balloon. “Sing Christmas songs,” it directed us. And so a few of us gathered happily around the piano and sang our favorite carols. At 7:30 we popped the next balloon: “Make New Year’s Resolutions.” We all groaned -- no one wanted to do it.
Truth be told, I’ve never been a big New Year’s resolution fan. Every year I end up with pretty much the same ideas that I never stick with for long. But I think this time, it was more that I didn’t think I needed to make resolutions. 2020 was a rotten year, but 2021 was going to be totally different.
Vaccinations would allow us to be with our loved ones. Our political mess would heal. Our kids would go back to school. This new year was going to be so full of light and joy that thinking about resolutions just seemed negative.
But 2021 has not yet lived up to my expectations. Covid rates are going up and vaccinations seem slow. More people are losing jobs and mourning lost friends and family. A mob recently took over the seat of our democracy, and there are threats of more violence in coming days. My daughter has been wrestling with health issues. And plans for going back to school are on an endless “pause.”
This new year feels much darker than I had hoped.
But, strangely enough, maybe this is a place for opportunity. Because darkness is so often where we are able to see the light of God shining most brightly.
Here we are. In the bleak mid-winter. The shepherds have left the manger. The angels have stopped singing their Glorias. The magic and mystery of Christmas seems to be ebbing away, and the world seems in danger of taking control.
Here we are, in the season after Epiphany, after the light has made its way into the world at Christmas but before we can be sure what will happen next.
In literary terms, an epiphany is that moment in the story where a character achieves a new realization, after which everything is seen through the prism of this new light.
Some people get Epiphanies with a big “E” that completely change their lives in obvious ways: like the burning bush that transformed Moses into a leader and liberator of his people; or like the angel messenger with big plans for Mary that turned her from a no-name teenager with a simple life to the Mother of God. Some people get obvious and indisputable Epiphanies; clear signs that would convince anyone.
But I think most of us probably don’t. Most of us are more likely to experience subtle, small “e” epiphanies that make sense only to us, and sometimes only in retrospect. But those are worthy epiphanies too -- and they can also be enough to give us a new prism to see things differently. Though they can also be awfully easy to miss. For most of us, it’s hard for God to catch our attention.
Like Samuel. Samuel was in a pre-sleep haze when a voice called his name. Three times, Samuel assumed it was his mentor Eli calling, the only person nearby. It didn’t occur to Samuel that God might be trying to communicate with him.
And like Nathanael. Nathanael was living his normal life and along came Philip raving about Jesus. But Nathanael was skeptical: “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” How could someone from a place so ordinary matter?
And like me. Most of the time, I’m living my life without noticing much of what goes on around me. Moving on to the next thing on my to-do list without stopping to appreciate this moment right here. Not often particularly focused on looking or listening for God.
And maybe like you too.
Now, luckily for Samuel, God didn’t stop calling. God called and called until finally Eli recommended that Samuel respond to God that he was listening. And when Samuel gave it a try, he discovered that the voice that had previously been just a voice was actually God’s voice.
Luckily for Nathanael, Philip ignored the insult about Jesus’ hometown and suggested he come along and see for himself. And despite his skepticism, Nathanael put foot in front of dubious foot until he made his way to Jesus. And when he learned that Jesus had seen him under the fig tree, he recognized that the man who had previously been just a man was something so much more.
There is a lot that is remarkable about these call stories, but it’s this fig tree bit that really intrigues me.
What was it about the fig tree that was so significant that it changed everything for Nathanael to have Jesus mention it? What was Nathanael doing or thinking under that tree?
But as much as my nosy curiosity would love to know, I think the very absurdity of the fig tree is the glory of this story. We have no idea what the fig tree meant to Nathanael, and neither did Philip or anyone else that might have been gathered around that day. To us it seems insignificant and silly. But Jesus knew. And in that knowing, Nathanael realized that Jesus had seen him in a real way -- that Jesus knew him to the core of his being.
I’ve been working with a small “e” epiphany over the last few weeks. One that has made me feel known, too.
On January 5th, a seminary classmate offered “star words” to friends over Facebook. Each year she makes stars for parishioners, each with a different word on it. The idea is that, like the wise magi follow the star to Jesus, each star word might be a gift to help guide someone during the year -- to think about how God might be speaking through this word. When she has extra words, she offers them to Facebook friends.
Last year, I received a great word from her -- “gentleness.” I took it as God’s invitation to be gentle with myself, to find more space for sabbath, to try to incorporate more gratitude into my daily life, and ideally, to be gentler with others too, especially those with whom I disagree. It was a lovely addition that I think helped prepare me for a less-than-lovely and certainly less-than-gentle year.
And so I was quick to respond when I saw Allison’s invitation this year. I definitely could use some more gentleness in my life. But this year my word was not so easy and light. This year my word was “sacrifice.”
Really, God?
That wasn’t the kind of word I was hoping for -- this year of all years. Haven’t we had enough of sacrifice? Not seeing loved ones, not going to school or church, scratchy masks and fogged up glasses, cancelled vacations, fear and sickness and death. We have all sacrificed plenty, thank you very much.
“Ugh,” I wrote to Allison in response, hoping to exchange my word for something lighter. “I think this one maybe hits a little too close to home.” And she wrote back, “It’s really hard when our word is challenging. I can’t wait to hear how God works through your discomfort.”
The problem was, I didn’t even want to sit with the word and give it credence. I didn’t want to find out how God might “work through my discomfort.” I wanted to delete it and rewind back to “gentleness”. And yet, there was also a part of me that suspected my reaction might mean that it was the right word for me afterall. That I had something to learn this year about sacrifice.
And, sure enough, try as I might to push it aside, the word kept resurfacing. And the longer I sat with it, the softer it became. I thought about Jesus, giving his life as a sacrifice (not just in his death, but in his way of living). Not out of grudging resentment or a need for power, but out of love and a desire to bring every single person into God’s embrace. For Jesus, sacrifice wasn’t a bad word, or a reminder of pain and hardship; it was a self-offering -- a gift.
Maybe shifting my understanding of sacrifice can change my attitude toward the hardships still ahead. Maybe there are things I need to learn how to sacrifice in order to live more fully and lovingly. Like my need to be right. And my need to be understood. And my need to have a clue what the future holds and be assured that everything will be alright. What would it mean to sacrifice some of the things that I hold onto so tightly? Not as punishment, but as gift -- to myself and to others. Maybe this word can help me to bring light out of darkness, with Jesus by my side.
And suddenly, there I was, like Nathanael under the fig tree. Even if it wouldn’t make sense to another living soul, I know that God was reaching out to me with that star word, inviting me to a new way of looking and listening. Inviting me to a new beginning. God had turned my discomfort into meaning, spoken to me in a way I wouldn’t have expected or asked for, seen me deeply -- known me -- and called me forth in love.
Slowly, surely, despite the darkness all around, the light that began in the manger has been flowing out into the world. The light that was just a hint on the horizon only visible to a few has begun to take over the sky in all kinds of surprising colors. This light has the power to warm human coldness and bring hope to lost souls. And this light shows us who we really are—full of light ourselves, just like Jesus. Light that can help call others out of darkness and despair.
So maybe some New Year’s resolutions are in order afterall.
To accept the invitation that wasn’t just for Nathanael, but for all of us: Come and see.
And to show my readiness with the words that weren’t just for Samuel, but for all of us: Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.
And to do the work that is certainly for all of us -- to help bring Christ’s light into the darkness of this world. Amen.
Comments
Post a Comment