I have been accused, on occasion, of telling stories that don’t quite seem to be true. Here is a story about a fish that got away.

I was fishing in my favorite spot down at the South Fork of the New River just over the hill from our house, and I hooked what must have been the biggest trout in the county.  He almost jerked the fishing pole right out of my hand.  Then he took off up the river like he was running from a fire.  I fought to bring him back.  Then, all of a sudden, there was no tension on my line.  I almost fell backward.  I looked into the river, thinking I had lost him, and there he was, the biggest trout I’d ever seen swimming right at me.  I started reeling in the line, fast, trying to keep up with him.  The trout sped toward me.  He jumped out of the water, spit the hook at me, and went tearing off in the other direction.  

I could have sworn he was laughing.

There are “fish stories” in the Bible, too, and this week, we will read one of them.  You may need to buckle the seat belts in your pews this week—we are in for a wild ride.

When I was growing up, my grandfather called his Bible “The Good Book.”  When you asked him a question, he would say, “Well, according to the Good Book…” and quote a verse of scripture that he probably had committed to memory.  When Jesus went to the synagogue in his hometown to preach his first sermon, Jesus did exactly that.  He picked up the Good Book (or the Good Scroll, as the case may be), and he told his hometown crew what it said.

And they didn’t like it.

Because Jesus sees in the Good Book Good’s deep desire to bring all people together.  Jesus came to tear down the walls that separate us, walls of race and religion and politics and ideas that we use to insulate ourselves from other people, to keep others outside our doors and our lives.  

On Sunday we will turn to the Good Book and discover that the tent of God’s grace is big enough for us all.

I feel fortunate that I remember my baptism.  I was baptized as an eight-year-old in a very cold mountain pond off the side of Brown’s Chapel Road a few miles outside Boone, North Carolina.  I remember the day well—the dusty dirt path lined with cars, the crunch of gravel under our feet as my mother and I walked from the car to the pond’s edge.  I knew I wanted to follow Jesus.  I knew the preacher said if you want Jesus to come into your heart, all you had to do was ask, and that when Jesus came into your heart, it was time to be baptized, cold water and all.

I understand now that baptism is also a sacrament of grace that embraces even the youngest of God’s children.  I have stood at baptismal fonts, in neonatal intensive care units, and even in backyards during the pandemic and welcomed children of all ages to the church with just a little dab of water.  And every time I do it, I welcome another child of God into the family of faith, where God offers love and support no matter what life brings.  And every time I say the words that make all the difference. 

You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.

On Sunday, as we read about Jesus’ baptism, I will reflect on what those words mean.

According to the Bible, sometime near the day of Jesus' birth, a star appeared.  Religious scholars and secular astronomers have debated for centuries exactly what this star was.  Some say it was a comet, others that it was a super nova, some that it was an unexplained natural phenomenon.  

I guess I don’t know about that.  But here’s what I say.  I say the star was God’s light.  

A light so bright that it led wise visitors from the East to see a newborn king.  A light so subtle that evil King Herod in Jerusalem had no idea it was there.  

Bright to some—imperceptible to others…It was God’s light.

Receiving a star gift on Epiphany Sunday has become a beloved tradition at FCC.  We will also hear star gift stories from three members of our church.  I invite you to join us this Sunday to look for the gentle light of your star.

The Fourth Sunday of Advent. Luke 1:26-45.

It happens nearly every year, but still, it surprises me.  We’re cruising along through Advent.  The candles are in the windows and the Christmas decorations are up.  Everything seems to be going along pretty smoothly, then there’s a fire on the horizon.  We turn the corner on the Second Sunday of Advent and who is standing there waiting for us?  It’s the one character that never appears in anyone’s nativity set, John the Baptist, and he’s hopping mad—an ax in one hand and a pitchfork in the other and the sparks are flying.  John is not exactly Christmas card material.

He's standing knee-deep in the river and delivering a hellfire and brimstone sermon.  

“You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? 8Bear fruits worthy of repentance…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.”

Merry Christmas!

But despite John’s appearance on the horizon, grouchiness is not the theme for the Second Sunday of Advent.  The theme is listening—listening for the Word of God.  I hope you will come listen with me.

We have been in the midst of our season of generosity for the past few weeks. This Sunday, we will dedicate our pledge cards and celebrate with thanksgiving all of the blessings God has granted us. It is always a joy to welcome Hot Cat Jazz Band to worship! 

The next two weeks we will be reading from the prophet Jeremiah. We begin at the end of the book, reading from Jeremiah 31 and 36. Next week our Youth Sunday School will lead worship and they selected a reading from Jeremiah 1. Studying this prophet two weeks in a row gives us an opportunity to notice the power of the prophetic word. The changes that prophets share don’t happen overnight. Sometimes it takes a while for a message to sink in. 

In the year that King Uzziah died, about 742 BCE, God was looking for someone to send.  “Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?’”  Fortunately, a courageous prophet stood nearby.  His name was Isaiah.

And it is a magnificent story, the kind of stuff a Hollywood producer would love.  Fire and smoke and earthquakes, buildings shaking and a voice from on high.

This is great stuff.

But then Isaiah gets the job description.  It isn’t what he thought he was signing up for.  But his eyes had seen God, and he couldn’t unsee God.  So, he says, “Here am I; send me!”  I can’t help but wonder, if one of us catches a glimpse of God, will we go?

It seems like Jonah has made his presence known often in worship over the last couple of years.  He was one of the Faces of Our Faith in our summer sermon series last year and just this past summer he appeared in our Come to the Water summer sermon series.  And now, here he is again in our Narrative Lectionary reading for this Sunday.

Jonah, Again?

This time I will focus on the end of Jonah’s story, the part we probably read less often.  At the end of the story Jonah is in a bad mood because God decided that the Ninevites are not so bad after all and spares their city.  That makes Jonah really mad.  On Sunday, I’ll talk about why Jonah is mad and the lessons we can learn from God’s response.

An “election sermon” is actually a very old tradition in the Congregational Church.  As best I can tell, the first one was preached by John Cotton in Boston in 1634, and they continued consistently all the way through the 18th century.  And they were long—more than two hours.  This will be my fourth election sermon here at FCC, and this one will not be that long.

Though maybe it should be because our scripture for Sunday is about never running out.  A widow in Zarephath looked at the world and saw that there wasn’t enough for her and her son to live.  It was a scary prospect.  There is lots of fear as we face another national election day too.  But Elijah says, “Do not be afraid!  God has enough for everybody—especially when we put someone else first.” On Sunday I’ll be reflecting on what it means to always have enough, no matter how bleak the future seems.