As if to ward off seasonal silliness, the calendar of our church surrounds Christmas with a variety of observances indicating darkness, which makes a star shine more brightly.

So did Mary have a choice? Could she have said "Thanks, but no thanks"?

We debated that question at a bible study last week, in reflection on the story of the annunciation. It brought to mind a fine sermon I heard years ago. The preacher (named Mary of all things. Did she know?) posited that the angel Gabriel may have knocked on a few other Nazareth doors before finally finding someone who would say yes. Let's be clear. The scriptures don't indicate whether that's true. But it raised for me a question about how we respond to God's call. We tout free will, freedom of choice, our own agency. But we could ask: do we have a choice?

Mary's encounter with Gabriel is only one in a long series of holy callings described in scripture. Often the response indicates that the person hearing the call believes God has the wrong number. Moses heard the call via the burning bush, and asked: "Who am I to take on the Pharaoh? I'm not as good a public speaker as my brother by the way. Try him." Jonah heard the call to go east and headed west as soon as he could. A rich young ruler wanted to follow Jesus. Jesus said: "Great. Give away your possessions and come on." The young man went away sad. Isaiah heard the call and declared himself a person of unclean lips. Peter heard Jesus' call and said to Jesus in response "Depart from me, for I am a sinful man." Jeremiah heard the call and said "I'm too young." Zechariah, father of John the Baptist, heard the call and said "I'm too old."

Mary, in contrast, after understandably admitting some puzzlement (Gabriel, run that by me again,) soon said, "Here am I" believing that with God all things are possible.

Did Mary have a choice? I'm not sure. Sometimes scripture indicates that the people who are called by God see no other pathway. I put a few examples of that holy compulsion in the excerpts above. The first disciples, St. Paul and his companions, the martyrs of the early church answer the call even though it got them in a mess of trouble. Life could have been, would have been so much easier. It's been true ever since. Martin Luther said "Here I stand. I can do no other." Abraham Lincoln said he was driven to his knees in prayer because he had nowhere else to go. John Lewis, a modern day witness, crossed the bridge and got in good trouble.

As we move from Advent to the Christmas season, I'm wondering how you have responded to God's call in your life. It may be a nudge to do something small, like reaching out to someone in the grips of loneliness amidst covid-tide. It may be a major shift in your life's commitments as a new year starts.

Questions of call can be found all over the Christmas story. Was it a choice? Was there no other way? Mary could have simply said "I don't think so." Joseph could have cancelled wedding plans. Shepherds could have attributed the angels' appearance to too little sleep or too much wine. Magi could have noticed an unusual star and said, "How interesting" and kept on with royal duties. Instead, for each of these characters the response was yes, perhaps a road less taken that has made all the difference.

As we come to the celebration of Christ's birth, we note that God's grace has appeared, a great gift. This Christmas, how will you say yes to that gift? How will you find room for it in your "no vacancy" life? How will you give thanks for it, with your lips and with your life? Is it simply unthinkable to say anything but "yes"? Perhaps answering such questions can provide insight into the reason for the season. That is my prayer this morning for you and for me.

My daily routine involves an early morning walk, time for quiet, orientation to the day, and some prayer. It's a privilege that part of that daily walk can take place on the beach, thanking God as the sun rises again, thanking God for the gift of another day. As it's gotten colder, the number of people on the beach is reduced. A couple weeks ago I was walking on the beach and I saw only one other person. A tall young man in a wetsuit with a surfboard emerged from the dunes and headed across the wide beach to the ocean.

Our paths came close to intersection as he reached the shore. I was close enough to see that he put down his surfboard. He leaned over and picked up a couple pieces of trash on his pathway on the beach. He stood up and looked around. He saw that a good couple hundred yards away there was a trash can. He left his board and walked all that way to deposit the trash. I thought of how easy it would have been to leave the trash where it was. It wasn't a lot. I realized that I too often have just passed by litter (literally and figuratively). It has caused me to begin to carry a plastic bag in my pocket on these morning walks, ready to pick up any trash I see. I began to shift the way I behaved because of what I saw this young man do. He was a witness to me.

(I should say that my wife, who is more spiritually evolved than I am, has been picking up trash on our beach walks forever. We have teased her for it. Funny how we sometimes we don't let those people closest to us to be our teachers. That's probably a topic for another column. Sorry, honey.)

This beach encounter, perhaps another Advent parable, made me think about witness. This young man didn't notice that I noticed. We spoke no words. I doubt he was thinking: "I've got to convince this guy to pick up trash." Chances are slim that he's a subscriber to Monday Matters, able to read this story. He just was doing what he thought was right, just doing good, for no reason except goodness. There was no one except me around to pat him on the back.

In case you haven't noticed, in our world these days, there is ample opportunity to do good. St. Francis said we should preach the gospel at all times and use words if necessary. That doesn't get us off the hook from speaking of our faith, being able to explain why it is in fact good news. But it does recognize that the ways we live in the world, the ways we treat each other, the ways we treat God's creation, speak volumes. The ways we live in the world have the potential to bring change.

On Sundays in Advent, we've been hearing about John the Baptist. His whole life and ministry was a matter of witness, pointing beyond himself to Christ, to love breaking into the world. He obviously didn't care what people thought of him. He was all about pointing to the light. We heard yesterday in church that John was not the light but came to bear witness to the light. And we read about him because in all of his eccentricity (and he gives new meaning to the word "eccentric"), he models what it means to be a witness.

Goodness surrounds us. Where do you see it? Are you noticing, watching, expecting, staying alert to it, even if it's just a faint glimmer, a small effort? That's sort of the deal with Advent. Who are the people that have been a witness to you, showing you how to live in the world? How have you been changed by their witness? Think of a moment when you saw someone do good. Maybe thank that person for the moment. At least, thank God for that person. Then consider opportunities before you to be a witness on this day, December 14. Someone might just notice. Or not. But ask the Holy One to place before you this day that chance to do good.

Advent calls us to watch, to be alert. For Jesus' sake, how can you be on the lookout for goodness?

When I was in seminary, our New Testament professor gave us this assignment: Write a parable. Sound simple? Try it some time. It's harder than you might think. As if we needed it, it helps us recognize Jesus' genius. I wrote a few really bad ones. I wrote one about Advent, which I often bring out at this time of year. Actually, like many good stories, it sort of wrote itself. Sorry if you've heard it before. It goes like this.

The experience of Advent is like unto that season in my life when I commuted from the suburbs into Manhattan. That daily trek involved a train ride, on tracks that ran along the Hudson River. In winter, commuting took place in darkness. Seasoned commuters gathered on the platform, clustered in precise intervals, knowing exactly where the doors on the train would open. It seemed to be a law of the universe that the colder and windier the morning, the longer the train was delayed. Delay happened often. Sometimes the train didn't show up at all, which led to a scramble for other ways to get to work. One could never predict. So standing in our clusters on those dark, chilly mornings, anxiety could be high. We would look up the train track, craning to see far into the distance. And waiting.

And then one could see the tiniest bit of light on the track. So very faint. But that first, little bit of light changed everything. For me, there was a sigh of relief. Don't get me wrong. I was still cold. The wind penetrated. I was not yet on the train. But I knew that soon and very soon it would arrive. That bit of light, perhaps comparable to the first candle lit on an Advent wreath, changed everything. It changed not only my expectation of the future, but also the way I navigated the present dark, anxious, chilly moment until the train arrived.

I'm wondering how you might see that parable at work in the world. Maybe we witness it now, with the promise of a COVID vaccine. It's not here yet, but as leaders have told us, there is light at the end of the tunnel. That small glimmer, yet unrealized, changes how we act now. I don't know about you, but it has diminished my Corona-fatigue. It's also encouraged me to keep doing the things (as annoying as they are) that mitigate spread. It's made me take to heart the admonitions that what we do now is an expression of love of neighbor. The medical hope for the future changes how I live now.

That is the deal with Advent, as far as I can tell. It is a season focused on hope. That doesn't mean we just sit around in a holding pattern. It means we conduct our lives right now, this Monday, confident in the promises of Christ's coming, signified in that manger, but also arriving in each of our hearts, in each of our encounters, in each of our responses to a world in need, in our communities, in our big and beautiful and broken world.

At the church where I am presently privileged to serve, our focus this season is on everyday hope. We're asking folks to consider ways that hope can shape our thoughts, words and deeds right now, in the midst of considerable coincident crises. Wherever you find yourself as Advent begins, you might want to consider the ways that you can hold on to hope. And as you're doing all that, play the 1965 Curtis Mayfield hit, a great Advent hymn, which has this refrain:

A recent conversation took me back to the days when I worked at an ad agency, before I made the slight career shift to ordained ministry. (I've been told that I'm still in advertising, but that's another topic.) Though it was a particularly secular environment, in which theological issues and liturgical practices never came up in staff meetings or client presentations, there were some spiritual lessons.

In one conversation with the principal of the agency, he posited two motivations in promoting a product or service: love and fear. An advertisement should either connect with what you love, or tap into what you're afraid of. For instance, this was an agency that came up with the slogan for air filters for your car: "You can pay me now, or you can pay me later." Buy this product out of fear of automotive apocalypse. Judgment Day is coming for your Oldsmobile. I'm guessing you can think of other advertising examples.

The conversations that evoked this memory had to do with church history, and more specifically, the personal spiritual journeys of people in our congregations. In my years in Episcopal congregations, I've noted that many of our people come from other traditions where the fear of God, the fear of judgment, the fear of damnation was the motivator. God was the celestial judge just waiting for people to mess up. Better be religious or else. No wonder so many people feel that they have been spiritually wounded. No wonder there are so many nones (i.e., no religious affiliation) and dones (i.e., done with church).

I haven't counted to verify but I'm told there are 365 times in the Bible in which people are told that they should not be afraid. One for each day. A daily exhortation. We'll read a few of those stories in Advent and Christmas seasons. The opening lines from angels to Zechariah, Joseph, Mary, shepherds are some version of "Fear not!" I can imagine that fear might be a reasonable response to an unexpected angelic visit.

But maybe it's deeper than just surprise. Maybe the angels are also saying that fear is not a healthy motivator. It brings with it toxicity that deforms relationships with God and neighbor. We see that fear-based brokenness at work in families, workplaces, churches, and in our political system. It pervades our racial reckoning. It shapes our regard for those who differ from us and leads us to treat those folks without regard for Christ's presence in each one of them, dismissing the inherent dignity in each person, created in God's image.

This kind of fear differs from the fear of the Lord that scripture tells us is the beginning of wisdom. That kind of fear, that spirit of awe recognizes that our lives unfold in the presence of a power greater than ourselves. The good news of our faith is that that greater power is by nature the power of love (and not the love of power).

I've been told that the opposite of love is fear. The Bible seems to confirm that when we read that perfect love casts out fear. Another way to think about it.  Courage is the opposite of fear, recognizing that the word courage shares the same root as heart (as in the French word for heart, coeur). Digging more deeply into the word, Richard Rohr points out that courage comes from the Latin, cor-agere, literally "an act of the heart.'

So blessings to you this day, in this unusual time when there are a bunch of reasons to indulge in fear. We launch on a season of thanksgiving and enter Advent, a season of hope, leading to a season of comfort and joy. May we start out this week, living not in fear but with courage, with acts of the heart. In whatever faces you this week, be fearless. Be of good courage.

I was reminded last week of the story of Karl Barth, prolific Swiss theologian of the 20^th century, one of the greats. Let's just say he never had an unexpressed written thought. He offered volumes upon volumes of dense writing (that often made me feel dense) on all kinds of subjects. At one point, a smart-ass seminarian asked if the good doctor could sum that all up in one sentence. Kind of a gotcha question. Dr. Barth said he could do so and he did so with the following sentence: "Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so."

If that story is not true, it ought to be, for what it reveals is the role the Bible plays in the Christian faith journey. In the work we do with congregations, we've learned that a key factor in spiritual vitality in churches is engagement with scripture. Understatement alert: In the Episcopal world, that can mean different things to different folks. But a distinctive element, in the words of Will Willimon in his book Shaped by the Bible, is that a Christian congregation is one that is confronted by and shaped by the Bible. How does that happen?

Yesterday in church, we heard a prayer that comes up once a year (included above.) It's about scripture, asking God's help in engagement with scripture, delineating a process that involves five steps. In the prayer. we ask for grace to:

1. Hear: We are meant simply to be open, to pay attention, to decide that the words of scripture are worth listening to. Jesus would often tell the crowds that he offered his teaching for those who had ears to hear. We often decide what we will hear. Spouses and children and students and clergy often engage in selective hearing. We all have a lot we can listen to, and we all face lots of distractions. How will we choose?

2. Read: Find out what the Bible says, for yourself. Do the work. As one pastor said to his congregation, perhaps in frustration: "I can't read the Bible for you." It's a discipline, and so we often suggest some kind of daily ritual, a morning quiet time, participation in the Daily Office (so chock full of scripture), devotional guides like Forward Day by Day. We encourage a set bit of time each day, even if it's just a few minutes. We encourage a sacred place in your home, a quiet place, a particular chair, maybe marked by a candle or a closed door or a sound machine to help keep focus.

3. Mark: The method of Bible study known as the African model asks a couple questions. It begins by asking what word or phrase strikes you. It then asks where the passage intersects with your life. That's a good place to start in marking scripture. Don't be afraid to underline. Keep a journal that includes your most honest and irreverent questions. Pray those questions, or take them to someone you trust for spiritual counsel.

4. Learn: It's what disciples do. A disciple is a learner, a student. That means, among other things being prepared for something new, something different, to admit that you don't know what you don't know. True learning comes with putting what you hear, read, and mark to work, to be doers of the word, not only hearers, to quote the New Testament letter of James.

5. Inwardly digest: Let it become part of you. We sometimes hear, as Episcopalians dive more deeply into scripture, that they are amazed how much of the Bible comes from the Book of Common Prayer. It actually happened the other way around. Those who shaped our guide for worship had inwardly digested the words of scripture. Those words were deeply integrated. It shows.

Why do any of this? Yesterday's collect tells us it is not in order to be holier or smarter than thou. It is for the sake of hope, hope of everlasting life given to us in Jesus. That everlasting life is not pie in the sky but is underway right now. We get to experience it more and more each day. And as Dr. Barth indicated, that hope is anchored in the love God for us, a love from which we can never be separated (eternally). The Bible in all its complexity, in the parts we like and don't, in the parts we understand and don't, is at its core a story of that ongoing relationship, a story of love that will not let us go.

So hear, read, mark, learn and inwardly digest. Because we can all use more hope.

Later this week (Wednesday), we observe the feast of St. Martin. I love the guy. He's the patron saint of the first church in which I served, St. Martin's in Providence, Rhode Island, a great place. When I arrived, I discovered that the symbol of St. Martin is a goose. There were renderings of geese and references to geese all over the place. It didn't strike me as the most noble mascot, but I went with the symbolism, new priest and all. But why a goose?

Martin, a priest, was elected bishop and didn't want to be a bishop. Perhaps a measure of his wisdom, but that's another topic. (Bishops, what do you think?) Upon election, Martin hid from the folks who wanted him to take the job. He hid in a barn, seemingly a good idea, except the honking of the geese in aforementioned barn gave away his hiding place. Next thing you know, he's wearing a mitre.

That story endears Martin to me. It's one in a series of stories in the Bible and in our tradition in which people are called by God and wonder if the call is a wrong number. Who me? Why me? You've got the wrong person, O Holy One. I've felt that way from time to time. Have you?

More about Martin. A patron saint of France, he was born in 330 in what is now Hungary. His early years were spent in Italy. After service in the Roman army, he settled in Poitiers, whose bishop, Hilary, he admired. According to legend, while Martin was still a catechumen, he was approached by a poor man who asked for alms in the name of Christ. Martin, drawing his sword, cut off part of his military cloak and gave it to the beggar. On the following night, Jesus appeared to Martin, clothed in half a cloak, and said to him, "Martin, a simple catechumen, covered me with his garment." As a legend, the story may or may not be true. But if it's not true, it ought to be.

That story endears me to Martin further. It reminds me of the parable of the sheep and goats (Matthew 25), in which Jesus commends those who help those in need, noting that such help is the way to meet Christ. It's a principle reflected in the baptismal promises which call us to seek and serve Christ in all persons. All of them. And we all know that Christ can often come very well disguised. (Perhaps a good thing to recall in the wake of a particularly divisive election season.)

Martin, a rich young man, a person of means and influence, met and served Christ in this encounter. That's why the gospel reading chosen for his day (see above) features a rich young man challenged to share what he had. The young man in the gospel chose a different path. He seems pretty clear that Jesus' call is a wrong number. He goes away, sad. And it seems Jesus is sad too, according to accounts in other gospels. The young man's refusal causes Jesus to offer the image of a camel going through the eye of a needle. It's a tough passage for those attached to riches to enter the kingdom of God. It's to let go. It's tough for any of us who in terms of global poverty are wealthy. Is there hope for any of us?

Thanks be to God, the story doesn't end there. Jesus says that with God, all things are possible. So with the help of this young man, and with the witness of St. Martin, let's consider what is possible. That possibility will unfold as we take our cue from St. Martin this week. How are you being called? Do you wonder if that call is a wrong number? If there were a barn nearby, would you go hide there to escape the call? More specifically, where is God calling you to address the needs of our world, so evident in our considerable coincident crises? Who will you encounter, calling you to share what you have? How will you respond?

Take Martin's witness to this possibility, and maybe, just maybe, you'll meet Christ in the process.

-Jay Sidebotham

Please continue in this season of prayer for an election.  Learn more at www.forwardmovement.org/election.

Contact: Rev. Jay Sidebotham jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement www.renewalworks.org

Starting tomorrow, the office of the Presiding Bishop and Forward Movement offer nine days: A season of prayer for an election. Learn more at www.forwardmovement.org/election.

Contact: Rev. Jay Sidebotham jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement www.renewalworks.org