Text: 2 Corinthians 4:5-12

Advent.  Christmas.  Epiphany.  Lent.  Easter.  Eastertide.  Pentecost.

These are the seasons of the liturgical year.

It begins in early December, or late November, depending on the year.  It begins in expectation, we are waiting, we are hopeful.  A woman is pregnant, the whole world is pregnant, we are pregnant, expecting birth.  And then, What child is this? Who is this stupendous stranger? who enters the world in such a humble setting.  According to his mother, who knows best, he will bring down the powerful from their thrones and lift up the lowly.  Magnificat!  This Epiphany, this light is not just a local event, but is for all people, even those pagan astrologers who sense the cosmic signs, and come for a closer look, bearing gifts.  Jesus is baptized, preaches good news to the poor, heals the sick, hangs with outcasts, confounds the educated with earthy parables.  The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it, but the darkness did not comprehend it.  The light enters the wilderness of Lent, calls for a whole new way of thinking, new neurological pathways so that we can see and hear what’s really going on.  The journey leads to the religious and political stronghold of Jerusalem, the holy city, the city that kills the prophets and those sent to it.  Jesus rides the donkey in to cheers of expectation and hope.  Is something new about to be born?  Jesus keeps riding through the confrontations in the temple during Holy Week.  The Son of Man, the Human One, the Son of David, the Son of God? is given the death penalty.  Everyone flees to save their own skin, except for a few women who stay by his side, these same women who later go to the tomb and find…

Text: Acts 2:1-13

I wonder how many languages we have represented here – that we can speak or at least partially understand.  We speak English, Spanish, Japanese, some Chinese, German, sing language…  What others?…. Some of you speak fluently in the language of music, its notations, its layers of meaning, its references to itself and beyond itself, each instrument speaking its own dialect.  Some of you are attuned to the language of mathematics, the language of psychology, of physiology, the language of politics, of design, the language of computer programming – a foreign language indeed.  There is the language of children which parents learn to understand, perceiving within a moment the messages after a day at school which say, “It was a hard day,” or “today was awesome.”  There is the language each couple has developed between themselves to express their affection, and their frustrations.  There’s the unique language between siblings and friends, laced with inside jokes and obscure references to favorite movie quotes.  Who here knows the language of the chickadee, chattering away with their companion calls, their signaling of danger, and talking about lunch.  Who can understand the milkweed, speaking, “Here I am” to the monarch butterfly looking for a place to lay its eggs.  Who can walk into a forest and hear the language of the trees, telling the story of the place, revealing the gifts and the limitations of the soil in which they are rooted, pronouncing themselves into a canopy of language.

Acts chapter two records the coming of the Holy Spirit during the feast of Pentecost.  The feast happened 50 days after the Passover celebration, which, for the group gathered in that upper room, equated to the same amount of time since their master had been killed as a common criminal at the hands of…

Text: Acts 2:1-13

I wonder how many languages we have represented here – that we can speak or at least partially understand.  We speak English, Spanish, Japanese, some Chinese, German, sing language…  What others?…. Some of you speak fluently in the language of music, its notations, its layers of meaning, its references to itself and beyond itself, each instrument speaking its own dialect.  Some of you are attuned to the language of mathematics, the language of psychology, of physiology, the language of politics, of design, the language of computer programming – a foreign language indeed.  There is the language of children which parents learn to understand, perceiving within a moment the messages after a day at school which say, “It was a hard day,” or “today was awesome.”  There is the language each couple has developed between themselves to express their affection, and their frustrations.  There’s the unique language between siblings and friends, laced with inside jokes and obscure references to favorite movie quotes.  Who here knows the language of the chickadee, chattering away with their companion calls, their signaling of danger, and talking about lunch.  Who can understand the milkweed, speaking, “Here I am” to the monarch butterfly looking for a place to lay its eggs.  Who can walk into a forest and hear the language of the trees, telling the story of the place, revealing the gifts and the limitations of the soil in which they are rooted, pronouncing themselves into a canopy of language.

Acts chapter two records the coming of the Holy Spirit during the feast of Pentecost.  The feast happened 50 days after the Passover celebration, which, for the group gathered in that upper room, equated to the same amount of time since their master had been killed as a common criminal at the hands of…

https://joelssermons.files.wordpress.com/2015/05/20150524sermon.mp3

Text: Acts 2:1-13

I wonder how many languages we have represented here – that we can speak or at least partially understand.  We speak English, Spanish, Japanese, some Chinese, German, sing language…  What others?…. Some of you speak fluently in the language of music, its notations, its layers of meaning, its references to itself and beyond itself, each instrument speaking its own dialect.  Some of you are attuned to the language of mathematics, the language of psychology, of physiology, the language of politics, of design, the language of computer programming – a foreign language indeed.  There is the language of children which parents learn to understand, perceiving within a moment the messages after a day at school which say, “It was a hard day,” or “today was awesome.”  There is the language each couple has developed between themselves to express their affection, and their frustrations.  There’s the unique language between siblings and friends, laced with inside jokes and obscure references to favorite movie quotes.  Who here knows the language of the chickadee, chattering away with their companion calls, their signaling of danger, and talking about lunch.  Who can understand the milkweed, speaking, “Here I am” to the monarch butterfly looking for a place to lay its eggs.  Who can walk into a forest and hear the language of the trees, telling the story of the place, revealing the gifts and the limitations of the soil in which they are rooted, pronouncing themselves into a canopy of language.

Acts chapter two records the coming of the Holy Spirit during the feast of Pentecost.  The feast happened 50 days after the Passover celebration, which, for the group gathered in that upper room, equated to the same amount of time since their master had been killed as a common criminal at the hands of…

Speaker: Carol Wise

Texts: Psalm 32; John 5: 1-9a

In my opinion, no other book in the Bible quite captures the depth and the breath, the valleys and the peaks, the challenges and the comforts, the joys and the anguish of faith quite like the Psalms. The simple movement from one Psalm to the next can take us from proclamations of hope, expectation and beauty then rudely thrust us into the painful realities of betrayal, struggle, violence and even death. The intensity of the psalmist’s swing from lamentation and groaning to shouts of ecstasy and victory is disquieting and has a way of catching us off guard and unprepared.

Sometimes in my work with the Brethren Mennonite Council for LGBT Interests, I feel as though I inhabit this intense, unpredictable and wonderful world of the Psalms in an almost frenetic and pervasive way. Life, as I have experienced it within the BMC community, often seems like a jarring oscillation between powerful forces where fragile hope is met with bitter disappointment, quiet joy with broken despair, fresh idealism with aching tragedy.  I cannot tell you the number of times that I have been ready to throw in the towel when suddenly I catch a whiff of something in the air, and I lift my head and inhale and, alas, it’s the sweet scent of hope, and I’m hooked again. Such turmoil can leave even the strongest of us unsettled and weary.

I am reminded of the magnificent novel by Toni Cade Bambara entitled The Salt Eaters.  It is an intriguing story about a Southern community’s complicated terror, fear, strength and deepest desires as they confront the struggles of a racist and wounding environment. The tireless, ever sturdy and dependable Velma has suddenly spiraled into the depths of despair. She is lost and sick, weary and…