Prayer
May we welcome this mystery of your love and thus delight in the joy that will be ours as children and heirs of your kingdom. We ask this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God forever and ever. Amen.
From Prayers for Sunday and Seasons, Year A, Peter J. Scagnelli, LTP, 1992.
Some Thoughts on John 1:1-18
"For an alternative approach, rather than helping our hearers to see the light of Christ shining in the darkness, preachers might help them to hear Jesus as God’s love song, singing life into the world’s babble, chaos, and voices of death."
Commentary, John 1:1-14, Craig a. Satterlee, Preaching This Week,WorkingPreacher.org, 2012.
"The gospel message does not go forward without witnesses like John, and one of the tasks in this sermon is to help show what it looks like to point our fingers towards Jesus. In the age of talk of missional churches, how does that work out practically? How can we point towards Jesus in mission in such a way that others come to know him and come to know and love God?"
Oremus Online NRSV Gospel Text
I like how Raymond E. Brown approaches this text. There is first the Word with God (John 1:1-2). The opening verses of this Christ hymn used to frame an entrance into the Johannine Gospel are brief and are completely, or I should say "seemingly," uninterested in a metaphysical conversation about the nature of God. It is, however, very clear that salvation history begins with the relationship between God, revealed through the living Word, and humanity. Quite simply, God reveals God-self to us in the work of creation—and by John’s usage here; creation also reveals something about the salvation of humanity as well. Creation is by its very nature a revealing act (Brown, John, vol. 1, 23–24).
The language of communion echoes through this theological vision: the Word was not just with God but toward God. This subtle distinction reveals eternal intimacy, a movement of love that births creation itself. Here, creation is not utilitarian or expendable but revelatory. It is a sacrament—"not simply made but meant." Every aspect of the created order becomes a medium through which divine intention shimmers. In a world where utility often overrides beauty, this vision insists that matter matters (Brown, 1966).
Secondly, there is the Word and Creation. “All creation bears the stamp of God’s Word,” Brown writes (Brown, John, 25). Here we see the author reflecting and reimagining the opening lines of Genesis. What is clearly of importance is that creation itself existed primarily for the glory of God and the revelation of who God is. The problem is that the creation is broken; it does not fulfill its purpose as God intended. It is not a sustainable creation. Instead, it is one where there is a constant battle to supplant the power and revelation of God. We can return to the creation story in Genesis—certainly this seems on the author’s mind. However, it is not difficult to see and imagine as we read the paper or watch television how humanity has created a non-sustainable kingdom for ourselves and that we wrestle for power with God, placing our needs above creation’s explicit purpose to glorify God.
This reflection asserts that faith is resistance—not merely assent to doctrine but embodied opposition to the claim that what is seen is all there is. The incarnation is God's counter-claim: the Word enters darkness from within it. To behold the incarnate Word is to realize that creation is charged with meaning, that bread and breath, leaf and light, speak of God. Every Eucharist is reimagined as an annunciation, as creation once again becoming womb to divine presence.
The third portion of our Gospel selection is the portion where we are reintroduced to John the Baptist. I say reintroduced because we spend several Sundays reading passages from Matthew that dealt with him and his ministry. Yet here we get a slightly different attempt to speak about how John responded to the living Word, the Light in the world. He was clearly not the one everybody was looking for, but dutifully gave witness to the revelation of God. Moreover, John the Baptist called everyone to a time of preparation and repentance, for the Light itself—the living Word—was entering the world.
We come to the final and fourth portion of our reading, and we return to the relationship between God and humanity—specifically in how the community of God (God’s people) responds to the living Word. God is dwelling with his people. He has made a “tent”; he is incarnated and present within the community (Brown, John, 35). The images here in this last section return not to Genesis but play on our remembrances of the Exodus and the idea that God came and dwelt among the people as they made their way in the wilderness. Here too is an expressed intimacy between God and people. God is not simply outside, having wound the clock tight and now letting it run. On the contrary, just as God was intimately involved with the creation and the people of Israel, God also is involved in the new community post-resurrection. God—the living Word—is making community within God’s tent and is revealing himself and the purpose of creation to all those who would call him by name: Jesus.
The closing affirmation is breathtaking: the Gospel does not merely speak of origins but of destiny. The incarnation is not just God's past intervention but our present calling and future hope. We are invited not simply to believe but to behold—to participate in the divine life and to witness to the world remade in the light of the Word.
In all, this reflection is itself a liturgical act, drawing us into awe, critique, and wonder. It contributes profoundly to an Anglican apologetics that is not about winning arguments but about forming lives. It teaches that to follow Christ is to stand with the Baptist in the wilderness, to behold glory in the face of Christ, and to find in that vision the shape of our salvation.
May we welcome this mystery of your love and thus delight in the joy that will be ours as children and heirs of your kingdom. We ask this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God forever and ever. Amen.
From Prayers for Sunday and Seasons, Year A, Peter J. Scagnelli, LTP, 1992.
Some Thoughts on John 1:1-18
"For an alternative approach, rather than helping our hearers to see the light of Christ shining in the darkness, preachers might help them to hear Jesus as God’s love song, singing life into the world’s babble, chaos, and voices of death."
Commentary, John 1:1-14, Craig a. Satterlee, Preaching This Week,WorkingPreacher.org, 2012.
"The gospel message does not go forward without witnesses like John, and one of the tasks in this sermon is to help show what it looks like to point our fingers towards Jesus. In the age of talk of missional churches, how does that work out practically? How can we point towards Jesus in mission in such a way that others come to know him and come to know and love God?"
Commentary, John 1:(1-9), 10-18 (Christmas 2), Ginger Barfield, Preaching This Week, WorkingPreacher.org, 2010.
"It would be truly horrendous to be in the hands of an all-intrusive God who never left us alone, and who, when it came time to send his messiah, sent one who ruled the earth like some heavenly Mussolini. In the very unobtrusiveness of the light of Christ, God honors our finite freedom."
"Penetrating the Darkness," Ronald Goetz, The Christian Century, 1988. At Religion Online.
"Penetrating the Darkness," Ronald Goetz, The Christian Century, 1988. At Religion Online.
I like how Raymond E. Brown approaches this text. There is first the Word with God (John 1:1-2). The opening verses of this Christ hymn used to frame an entrance into the Johannine Gospel are brief and are completely, or I should say "seemingly," uninterested in a metaphysical conversation about the nature of God. It is, however, very clear that salvation history begins with the relationship between God, revealed through the living Word, and humanity. Quite simply, God reveals God-self to us in the work of creation—and by John’s usage here; creation also reveals something about the salvation of humanity as well. Creation is by its very nature a revealing act (Brown, John, vol. 1, 23–24).
The language of communion echoes through this theological vision: the Word was not just with God but toward God. This subtle distinction reveals eternal intimacy, a movement of love that births creation itself. Here, creation is not utilitarian or expendable but revelatory. It is a sacrament—"not simply made but meant." Every aspect of the created order becomes a medium through which divine intention shimmers. In a world where utility often overrides beauty, this vision insists that matter matters (Brown, 1966).
Secondly, there is the Word and Creation. “All creation bears the stamp of God’s Word,” Brown writes (Brown, John, 25). Here we see the author reflecting and reimagining the opening lines of Genesis. What is clearly of importance is that creation itself existed primarily for the glory of God and the revelation of who God is. The problem is that the creation is broken; it does not fulfill its purpose as God intended. It is not a sustainable creation. Instead, it is one where there is a constant battle to supplant the power and revelation of God. We can return to the creation story in Genesis—certainly this seems on the author’s mind. However, it is not difficult to see and imagine as we read the paper or watch television how humanity has created a non-sustainable kingdom for ourselves and that we wrestle for power with God, placing our needs above creation’s explicit purpose to glorify God.
This reflection asserts that faith is resistance—not merely assent to doctrine but embodied opposition to the claim that what is seen is all there is. The incarnation is God's counter-claim: the Word enters darkness from within it. To behold the incarnate Word is to realize that creation is charged with meaning, that bread and breath, leaf and light, speak of God. Every Eucharist is reimagined as an annunciation, as creation once again becoming womb to divine presence.
The third portion of our Gospel selection is the portion where we are reintroduced to John the Baptist. I say reintroduced because we spend several Sundays reading passages from Matthew that dealt with him and his ministry. Yet here we get a slightly different attempt to speak about how John responded to the living Word, the Light in the world. He was clearly not the one everybody was looking for, but dutifully gave witness to the revelation of God. Moreover, John the Baptist called everyone to a time of preparation and repentance, for the Light itself—the living Word—was entering the world.
We come to the final and fourth portion of our reading, and we return to the relationship between God and humanity—specifically in how the community of God (God’s people) responds to the living Word. God is dwelling with his people. He has made a “tent”; he is incarnated and present within the community (Brown, John, 35). The images here in this last section return not to Genesis but play on our remembrances of the Exodus and the idea that God came and dwelt among the people as they made their way in the wilderness. Here too is an expressed intimacy between God and people. God is not simply outside, having wound the clock tight and now letting it run. On the contrary, just as God was intimately involved with the creation and the people of Israel, God also is involved in the new community post-resurrection. God—the living Word—is making community within God’s tent and is revealing himself and the purpose of creation to all those who would call him by name: Jesus.
The closing affirmation is breathtaking: the Gospel does not merely speak of origins but of destiny. The incarnation is not just God's past intervention but our present calling and future hope. We are invited not simply to believe but to behold—to participate in the divine life and to witness to the world remade in the light of the Word.
In all, this reflection is itself a liturgical act, drawing us into awe, critique, and wonder. It contributes profoundly to an Anglican apologetics that is not about winning arguments but about forming lives. It teaches that to follow Christ is to stand with the Baptist in the wilderness, to behold glory in the face of Christ, and to find in that vision the shape of our salvation.
Some Thoughts on Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7
Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians (Galatians 3:20-29) by Martin Luther.
"Perhaps the preacher will find a way to imagine hugely and begin with small steps, holding both before the congregation that continues to believe that faith has indeed come and God's Holy Spirit is not yet finished with us."
Commentary, Galatians 3:23-39 (Pentecost 5C), Sarah Henrich, Preaching This Week, WorkingPreacher.org, 2013.
"Paul was declaring that you could leave large parts of the Bible aside and that you should see it as having its main meaning in what Jesus brought to us."
"First Thoughts on Year C Epistle Passages in the Lectionary," Pentecost 5, William Loader, Murdoch University, Uniting Church in Australia.
Before faith came, we lived under guard.
We lived under the law, and the law was good. It set up guardrails for our lives, helping to keep us on track. But it could not make us free. The law held down the wildness of our hearts, but it could not redeem our wild hearts. The law was our tutor, or guardian, drawing boundaries to keep us in line, but not giving us the freedom of sonship. The law pointed ahead, but could not pull us into the future. Its voice was corrective; it was not inviting.
But now faith has come. Faith in Jesus Christ—not just an idea to assent to, but a living reality to enter into, the reality of new life in Christ. The faith that would change our lives, not just make them better. The faith that breaks the boundaries. The faith that releases the captivity. The faith that brings us from student status under a harsh disciplinarian to children in the household of God. The faith that lets us live, not from fear of punishment, but from love.
This is the arc of our liturgical life as well. The cycle of the seasons in the Church’s year, and especially the movement from Advent to Christmas and Lent to Easter, enacts and recapitulates the journey from waiting to celebration, from penitence to praise. As our Book of Common Prayer says, “the whole Church is called to keep watch and pray,” but it is always toward the realization of God’s love made known in Christ.
Paul says that “in the fullness of time,” God sent his Son, in human history, not too soon, and not too late, but at just the right moment. When the world had become weary with waiting, Christ was born, of a woman, under the law, under the boundaries that would keep all humanity captive, but stepping into the darkness to redeem us from it. Not only to forgive our sins, but to make us his own—to take us out of the courtroom and bring us into the family room.
This is not only true in Anglican spirituality; it is not only preached, but enacted in the sacraments. In the waters of baptism, we are “sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever.” In the Eucharist, we are reminded that our adoption as God’s children is not an abstract reality but an embodied one. Christ did not stay in the ether; he did not remain an idea. He came into our condition and by his presence within us our own identity is transfigured.
We have not only been redeemed; we have been adopted. And because we are his sons and daughters, God has given the Spirit of his Son into our hearts. That Spirit does not whisper a list of dos and don’ts. It cries out with intimacy and tenderness, “Abba! Father!” The cry of the heart has changed. From duty to love, from obedience to affection, from distant to near. It is not just that we say “Our Father,” it is that the Spirit within us cries out, “Abba!”
This intimacy is lived out in the sacramental life of the Church in which the Spirit is made known not just in private piety but in the gathered people of God. As Bishop Andrew Doyle has written, “the Church’s worship and sacramental practices serve as a narrative apologetic,” a visible, tangible, bodily telling of God’s invitation to relationship, love, and family.
We are no longer slaves, but sons and daughters. And if we are children, we are also heirs, heirs of God’s promises, co-heirs with Christ. This is not a performance-based religion. This is the unearned reality of grace. God has not only cleared our ledger; he has given us a place in His will, a place at His table, and called us home.
Let this settle deep within us. We are not defined by what once bound us. We are not our failures, or our past, or our performance. We are His. We belong. And in Christ, we are finally, truly free.
"The mission given to the prophet of Isaiah 61:10-62:3 is still needed today, so long as the world is populated by those who are brokenhearted, mourning and in captivity."
"The lectionary's creators evidently viewed this portion of Isaiah as both eminently appropriate to Christmas and flexible in its boundaries."
"In other words, the people as a whole will be entrusted with the former monarchical function of administering God's justice and righteousness in the world."
The bridal imagery of Isaiah, with the eschatological twist of Revelation’s vision of the Church as bride (Rev. 21), of course takes this even further. It is not self-fashioning. God clothes, God beautifies, God brings righteousness forth from the earth like springtime shoots (Isaiah 61:11). In this image is a beautiful theology of divine first initiative as a constant refrain which we hear in prevenient grace but also as aesthetic and luminous: God does not add grace to nature, God calls nature to its radiant actuality. In the tradition of Lancelot Andrewes and Richard Hooker that truth is both ontological and aesthetic. This kind of beauty cannot be produced by an ideology that only sees justice or mercy in any impoverished terms. As William Stringfellow, our spiritual guide and provocateur of the Episcopal Reformation, said, authentic, liberating salvation cannot be had while we remain under the thrall of idolatrous powers that act to contract, diminish and enslave human life. Authentic, liberating salvation of Zion breaks these idolatries and the Church of Christ out of captivity to nationalism, technologism, materialism and ecclesial narcissism over its own furniture, buildings and careers.
In a different way, Isaiah shifts in Isaiah 62. No longer just description, now exhortation: “For Zion’s sake I will not keep silent.” The Church is called to intercession for the sake of Zion and the sake of those watching over Zion in prayer (62:6). This is an intercessory posture, because salvation is not so certain it can be passive, silent or lacking in embodied, attentive, hope-full watchfulness. In an Anglican reading, faith involves a kind of muscular and experiential counter-tension to doubt, apophatic openness, ambiguity and creative perception, as we are encouraged by Cardinal Lawrence and others like Iain McGilchrist. The latter’s analysis of our contemporary mechanistic, two-world view consciousness speaks directly to the broken tension at the core of faith. The metaphors we use for Zion are not abstract, grid-like patterns to be observed by algorithmic reductionism but are realities to be apprehended by “right hemisphere” knowing in direct relationship to the world and to God who is the Truth of the World, a knowing that both beholds beauty and acts in wonder.
“Jerusalem shall be a crown of beauty in the hand of the Lord” (Isaiah 62:3). Holy city! To be holy is not perfectionism but to be in communion. The Church is and is not the city but eucharistically, as a gathered and broken Body, it is and is not the holy city, adorned and adorning at once, wounded, radiant, broken and beloved. In the theological and eucharistic vision of Hooker and Andrewes and Aquinas and Le Guillou, the eucharist is not a spectacle for an audience but a mystery for entry in which the human is divinised through the utterly self-giving Christ.
We are promised a “new name” (Isaiah 62: 2), a name we do not give to ourselves by the power of an ideology or a brand. It is a name spoken by God and heard only within the community of mutuality and worship. This is where the anguished cry of the modern and prophetic document Beyond Code and Creed is a fitting reminder of the way in which attention is constantly mediated by algorithmic systems and protocols so that algorithmic systems seem to be the world. Isaiah’s vision and all biblical imagination challenge that precisely by the irreducible dignity of embodiment, gathered presence, holiness. Salvation is not code. Justice is not data. Faith cannot be automated. These things are and must be lived out in body, in hand, in gesture, in communities who gather to lament and to praise.
Isaiah’s final scene of righteousness springing forth like vegetation from the earth (61: 11) is a vision open onto an eschatological horizon. In one way, this is pneumaesthetic imagination rather than escapism. As Embodied Faith in the Future envisions through Le Guin, Margaret, and Robin Kimmerer, the great and the true text is creation and creation speaks in all its earth, animal and vegetal texture. Robins annotate the dawn, river stones gloss gravity and earth breath, fungal networks footnote the economy of reciprocity and promise keeping. Theologians notice that God is there and the truth of creation, the Logos is where a grammar of hope speaks sacrament and protest alike.
But in the end this is not just Isaiah’s vision. It is ours to live, ours to embody, ours to be sent with, ours to be gathered, adorned and named. Faith lived in body and community is both the medium and the message: God clothes the broken, names the outcast, and sends us out into the world to allow justice and beauty to flower for all, for Zion.


