First Sunday of Advent
November 29, 2009
 
 
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December 20, 2009
 

First Sunday After Christmas
December 27, 2009
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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December 13, 2009—Third Sunday of Advent

Lectionary Texts: Zephaniah 3:1-20; Isaiah 12:2-6; Philippians 4:4-7; Luke 3:7-18

Sermon Text: Philippians 2:1-11

The Preposterous Exchange: Love

Frank grew up in a Christian home. In fact, his father was both a pastor and a missionary. He was the kind of boy who won perfect Sunday school attendance awards and was crowned king of summer church camp. He eventually went to a Christian college where he excelled academically.

Everybody liked Frank. He was kind and compassionate. He was a friend to the friendless. He always seemed to have an encouraging word right when you needed it. But Frank was fighting some internal battles that no one but he and God knew about.

And so after college Frank entered the gay community and began to lead a very promiscuous homosexual lifestyle. When his family learned of his decision they cut off all contact with Frank and literally disowned him. The majority of his friends also quickly disassociated themselves from him. And because he identified God's love with the love of his family and friends Frank assumed that even God had turned his back on him.

Frank began a relationship with another man and moved to Dallas, Texas. While in Dallas, Frank discovered he had contracted the HIV virus. When his friend found out, he immediately left, leaving Frank alone. He was devastated. He felt utterly abandoned and as if he had no one else in the world to turn.

He heard about a medical research group on the West coast who was developing and administering a new drug to fight the HIV virus, and so he moved west to join the group. But after a short time the word from the research team came back: "We're sorry. What we thought was going to be helpful was not. What we've been giving you is a placebo drug the equivalent of sugar cubes."

A few months later, Frank developed full-blown AIDS. He degenerated quickly, and the research hospital sent him home to die in his own bed. One night he had a terrible nightmare about dying and he woke up frightened. He didn't know what to do, and then he remembered that one of the men who had been a speaker at one of his youth camps, and had had a profound impact on Frank, was now pastoring in the area. And so he called his sister and said: "Could you get a hold of him and ask him if he'd come see me?"

That pastor happens to be a friend of mine—and he agreed to stop and see Frank. He walked into a simple stark room and there was Frank lying on his bed. Even though he was still a young man he was already so weak that he could barely sit up. They exchanged greetings, and my friend sat down on the edge of the bed, and they began to have a casual conversation, until finally they had run out of things to talk about.

There were a few moments of awkward silence. Then Frank looked at him through ashen eyes and asked: "Tell me something, preacher, what do people like you think of people like me?" There was a long pause . . . and then my friend answered: "The important question, Frank, is not what I think about you, or for that matter what anybody else thinks . . . the important question is, what does God think about you?"
It was a good question. It's an important question. In fact, if I could redirect the question for us today I think I would pose it something like this: WHAT DOES A GOD LIKE YOU THINK ABOUT PEOPLE LIKE US?

It's a question that every religious tradition must not only ask, but try and find an answer to. And not surprisingly, most world religions answer that question with a great deal of fear and trepidation.

Hindus offer sacrifices at the temple. Kneeling Muslims bow down so low that their foreheads touch the ground. And Buddhists meditate to try and find a transcendental level on which to meet God. Even Jewish tradition was somewhat fearful of that question, and took for granted, as did most religions of the time, that the only way to enter the presence of a holy God was with sacrifice in hand.

And I'll be honest with you, if I were left to my own devices to try and figure out the majesty and mystery of God, I might come up with a very similar conclusion to the question: What does a God like you think of a people like us?

And yet as I understand more and more the life and ministry of Jesus, and as I read Scriptures like the Christ-hymn we read this morning, I have to take a different look at God. Frankly, it's the person of Jesus that changes any other views I have of God, because in the Incarnation is revealed the essence of God's character, which is: GOD IS LOVE!

But what do we mean by that? What kind of love are we talking about?

*C.S. Lewis said that when most of us consider the love of God we think of a senile grandfather in heaven who "likes to see young people enjoying themselves," and whose plan for the universe was simply that it might be said at the end of each day, "a good time was had by all." And as silly as that sounds, sometimes I'm afraid that that's our version of the love of God. That we see God as some kind of divine Santa Claus with a flowing white beard and a bag of presents to put under our tree.
It reminds me of the little boy who came into the living room wearing his pajamas and said to his parents: "I'm going to bed and I'm going to be praying. Anybody want anything?" But if Santa Claus is the extent of our version of God's love, there's no redemption in that! Sentimental love has no power to change a life!

If Santa Claus sentimentality isn't what God's love is, then how does God love us? The one who can answer that question most completely is Jesus himself. And what did Jesus have to say about the nature of God's love? Well, Jesus told stories to help us understand:

He said: "The love of God is like a shepherd who had 100 sheep. One of them got away leaving only 99. But the shepherd wasn't content wasn't content with 99 while one was still lost. And so he left the 99 and went out searching for the one that was lost. And when he finally found it he went crazy, threw it on his shoulders, and ran home. But he didn't stop there. Then he called all his friends together and threw a party!" Jesus said: That's the way God loves us!

He said: "The love of God is like a woman who lost her most valuable possession! What does she do? She tears through the house trying to find it. She leaves no stone unturned and won't rest until it's found. And when she does . . . she goes nuts and throws a party over that one lost possession!" Jesus said: That's the way God loves us!

He said: "The love of God is like a Father who waits on the porch for his wayward son to come home. And when he sees him coming down the road, he doesn't wait for him to get there. NO! He jumps up from where he's sitting, and runs like crazy to reach him, AND EVEN THOUGH THE SON DOESN'T DESERVE IT, he throws arms of forgiveness around him, and welcomes him back into the family. AND IF THAT WASN'T ENOUGH, guess what he does next? You guessed it! HE THROWS ANOTHER PARTY!!" Jesus said: That's the way God loves us!

From cover to cover the Bible drips with the love of a seeking, saving, celebrating God reckless with desire to get his family back. A God who will stop at nothing, short of forcing us to accept his love, even if it means sending his own Son as a baby to finally die on a cross for our sins! You see, Jesus not only told stories about God's love, he came and poured out his life to demonstrate God's love!

The cross of Jesus Christ is not a terrible blunder in human history. It is the ultimate expression of God's love. Not a sweet, sentimental love--but a suffering, sacrificial, self-giving love that does for us what we could never do for ourselves--bring us to God and pay the price for our redemption!

Not long after we moved to Kansas City my wife's parents came for a visit, and we decided to take them to see a Royals' game. We didn't have great connections and so we had to buy third level seats in "the nose-bleed section."

I've heard it said there's not a bad seat in Royals stadium. I beg to differ. We were so high up the only time we knew something good had happened was when the crowd roared. The view was bad . . . but who was in front of us was even worse.

He sat in his seat, spread out like a red water balloon. I was sitting directly behind a man who personified the single best definition of "vulgar" that ever walked on two feet. Not only was he a good case-test for the certainty of depravity, he was also decisive proof of the ineffectiveness of anti-per spirants.
It wasn't just that he was extremely obese--and he was. It was more his attitude. He seemed to have, from my rather unpleasant vantage point, two major talents of which he willingly shared with everyone near him: drinking beer and swearing. Sharing the beer because he was sloshing it on everyone within arms length and sharing his swearing because of his volume.

And he had quite a vocabulary. Some of the words he said, to this day, I still have no clue as to what they meant. And when he would tire of drinking and swearing, which was rare, he would give a long wet belch. He was loud, obnoxious, and smelly.

Now I consider myself to have an active imagination, and so I started to worry. He was drinking so much that I thought it very possible that he could pass out on the spot, fall backwards and suffocate my children. After which their gravestones would read: "Here lays a child flattened by fate."

I sat there trying to ignore him, but being almost compelled to watch him. And as I did something interesting happened--I began to think about something else. For some strange reason, I began to think about the year twenty years before that my family had moved from one state to another. I remembered it well, because it wasn't simply a move from one state to another, it was a move from safety and security to some of the most uncertain years of my entire life. In some ways it seems strange to say that 6th and 7th grade were my most complicated years, but I can VIVIDLY remember them. My whole world was turned upside down.

My new school was a big school. I knew no one. And not only was I friendless, to make matters worse I wasn't exactly a rising star either. I had a soup bowl haircut and dark plastic glasses that looked like protective eyewear for shop class. The combination of a bad haircut and glasses that only a mother could love made me look like an eleven-year-old Bill Gates. I think that was the year I was voted "most likely to have an ink stain on my shirt pocket." . . . I was completely lost.

I wanted to be popular, or at the very least liked. I wanted to be accepted by the people around me in the worst way. And I especially wanted to be a part of the "in" crowd. I longed to slink and hang with the movers and shakers and jump shooters of my Junior High. Unfortunately, because my coordination hadn't kept pace with the length of my feet, it didn't look like I was going to "slink" any time soon. And day after day, the lack of acceptance and teasing became more than I could take.

I started faking sick so I wouldn't have to go to school. I made up stories about why I couldn't go to class, too ashamed to tell my parents what was really going on. I was lonely, I was isolated, and I was miserable. So miserable that I made a near fatal mistake: I broke down and cried during 6th grade English class!

Now in case you didn't know it, 6th grade boys are forbidden to cry. That's against all the rules of machoism and a violation of testosterone. It took me two years to get over that mistake, and only then, by constantly spitting on the gym floor. It was a difficult time in my life.

It was funny that the man at the Royals game got me thinking about those early years of my life. And what was even more ironic, was that the whole thing got me thinking about God's love in Jesus.

I remembered in Sunday school class, we would cut out little paper Jesus dolls with yellow ink halos as the teacher explained to us about the mammoth love of God. But now I was faced with an even larger problem: Depravity in the flesh was sprawled out in front of me, who could swear easier than he could breathe. And I had to ask myself: Could God love this man? Could Jesus change this man?

Make no mistake about it. There was nothing likable about him. But now there was an even deeper problem. This disgusting man, that everyone within fifteen bleachers couldn't stand, reminded me of someone, and the question suddenly took a nasty turn. Not just could God love this man, but could God love a 5-foot-2, 95 pound, skinny kid with glasses who couldn't slam dunk a basketball and who'd committed the unpardonable sin of crying in 6th grade English class? Would he even want me?

And I have to tell you something, by the end of the game, I came to the realization that I'd found so hard to believe at when I was eleven: Not only did God love him, God loved me, and he always had! Not because of what we'd done, but because of who he is. Loving us not because of what we do, but because of grace!

And somehow it didn't matter how many times the fat man belched or how many times I double-dribbled. What matters is that God, through his seeking, sacrificial Son, loves us regardless of our performance.

God's love for you is not dependent on how you look, how you think, or how you act. His love is absolutely nonnegotiable and unconditional. No matter what you do, no matter how far you fall, no matter how ugly you become, God has a relentless, unquenchable love from which you cannot be separated. Jesus' birth proves that! But listen, God's love is also powerful enough to change you, to change me, and change the man at the Royals game! Christ's cross and resurrection proves that!

The Christmas story is a love story. In Jesus we uncover the promise of a seeking God who will go to any length to win us back. But it's not love without cost! The Incarnation cost God dearly!

I never finished telling you the rest of Frank's story. When Frank asked my friend: "What do people like you think of people like me?" . . . My friend said: "I'm here to tell you what God thinks of you. And God sees you through the eyes of grace." And Frank surrendered his life to Jesus Christ.

Frank died on a Sunday. My friend was leading a retreat when he got the call that Frank was dying. He left the retreat and hurried back home. He had a chance to sit with him in the last few hours of his life.

They talked for while, until Frank began to fade in and out of consciousness. My friend said: "I'd run out of words. The only thing I could think to do was to sing a song I thought he might remember from Sunday school." And so he held Frank's hand and began to sing: "Jesus loves me, this I know." And as he sang, Frank squeezed his hand, as if to say: "I've always believed it--now I accept it."

What does a God like ours think about a person like you? He loves you! You can be forgiven! And that's the story of Christmas!