Taylor Mertins

whenever we gather at this table, in this room, on a day like today, we’re certainly here in this time and place with these people, but we’re also in that room with Jesus long long ago. And we, no matter what we’ve done or left undone, no matter what happens when we leave from the table, the bread is broken and the cup is shared for us and with us.

Art, as they say, imitates life.

The church has been many things and will continue to be and do many things. But ultimately, the church is where the Gospel is made visible. By coming to the table, by receiving bread and up, we become the latest painting of The Last Supper.

Chances are you’ve felt interrupted a time or two this Christmas season; you had a plan and then you watched it fall apart. And chances are your life is not what you thought it would be. Various interruptions interrupted the path you prepared. And yet, God works through interruption. God shows up, usually when we least expect it, like a knock at the door, like the crying out of a little baby, like receiving good news when we’ve heard nothing but bad news.

And tonight God interrupts your life and my life once again with the promise of the Gospel:

A new day is breaking. Light shines in the darkness. Death is defeated. No matter what you do or leave undone, no matter how many plans come to fruition or fall apart, God refuses to being anything other than God with you.

What happens when the preacher preaches an unwritten sermon?

Whenever we come to the table for communion, we share this short and ancient creed: Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.

We live in the in between, right smack dab in the middle of the already but not yet.

The dawn from on high has come upon us, and it will come upon us.

Whatever our personal darkness may be, whatever it is we are sifting through and trying to navigate, whatever keeps us awake at night and makes us nervous for tomorrow, it will be redeemed. The desert will bloom, light will shine in the darkness, the dead will be raised.

It might not be today or even tomorrow, but one day God will make all things new.

Hear God’s promise at the beginning of Luke’s Gospel: “By the tender mercy of the Lord, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to whose who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.”

Or, as Auburn Sandstrom said, “In the deepest, blackest, night of despair and anxiety, it only takes a pinhole of light and all of grace can come in.”

Lent and Advent are the most challenging seasons of the Christian calendar because during them we receive the most difficult, demanding, bad news ever to be called good - The Cross. Twice a year our worlds are rocked, our tables are turned, demons are put to wrought, and dead dreams are brought back to life.

Jesus is the reason for this season, and frankly for every season. And lest we domesticate the Lord to mere flannel graphs and perfectly manicured manger scenes, we can’t forget Lent during Advent, the shadow of the cross lingers over the manger.

For, the baby born king we worship here and now grows in spirit and wisdom enough to call the powers and principalities to task. J the B might hit us with some harsh words here in December, but they can’t hold a flame to what J the C says and does. Jesus will not relent to the world. In fact, Jesus overcomes the world.

The promise of Advent is that no matter what stumps us in life, no matter how many dead ends we encounter, God is going to make a way where there is no way. Predator and prey will dwell together. Peace will reign. A child will lead us.

Let there be no mistake, we, all of us, stand on the threshold of God’s kingdom. We never really know from moment to moment when an opportunity will come our way. It’s a mystery, but that’s where the real power lays. The Lord is always out in front of us. God’s futures approaches us, God’s future in which we will all be made new.

We wait with hope by lighting whatever little lights we can, for no light is too small in this ever darkening world.

“Jesus always comes to us in the brokenness of our health, in the shipwreck of our family lives, in the loss of all possible peace of mind, even in the very thick of our sins. Jesus saves us in our disasters, not from them.” - Robert Farrar Capon

I’ve joked before, though its not really a joke, about how despite the beauty of the wedding liturgy, it would be far more appropriate if the couple made this public affirmation together:

“We are both broken. We have been idiots and we will be idiots again. We are both difficult to live with. We sulk and get angry and hold grudges. We both blame other people for our own mistakes, we’re not very good at compromise, and we are definitely not as nice as we think we are. And yet, we are here together hoping against hope to fight against the loneliness our failings tend to create.”

Marriage isn’t easy, but it might become easier if we realize that our partners are fallible creatures just like us.

Jesus says “Marriage isn’t heaven nor will there be marriage in heaven.” Not because marriage isn’t a good thing, but simply because the goodness of heaven transcends the goodness of everything we can know in our earthly lives.

A saint is simply someone whose life manages to be a crack through which God’s grace peaks through.

God uses music to help us enter the mysteries of life, death, and life after death.

We sing our faith. The words and melodies of our music transcend space and time; they tunes us in to God’s frequencies in the world. Music gives us the space to experience what we believe and how we pray when we don’t know how to put those things into words - music gives us the opportunity to feel whatever it is we are feeling without feeling like we’re not allowed to feel what we feel.

When Robert Jenson said the End is music, he went on to add how that particular music does not end, and so is always our beginning.

One day we, with all of creation, will be transfigured into God’s music. That’s the promise of the story of the Gospel.