If the internet had been around when Mark was writing his gospel, I think he might have been a blogger. He would have appreciated the immediacy of our information age, when news gets to us fast, when stories are told quickly, and with urgency. That’s how Mark wrote the story of Jesus’ life: there’s an intensity to it, as if he’s so excited to tell us the good news that he can hardly catch his breath.  Here’s what Eugene Peterson, author of The Message, has to say about Mark’s gospel:

“Mark wastes no time in getting down to business – a single-sentence introduction, and not a digression to be found from beginning to end. An event has taken place that radically changes the way we look at and experience the world, and he can’t wait to tell us about it. There’s an air of breathless excitement in nearly every sentence he writes. The sooner we get the message, the better off we’ll be, for the message is good, incredibly good: God is here, and he’s on our side.”

Over the next six weeks (January 15 – February 19), we’ll be making our way through Mark’s gospel, in worship and in a new Sunday school class. We’ll explore the historical context of this earliest gospel and listen for how God might be speaking to us through these stories today.

Mark is also the shortest of the gospels, and it’s a good read. You might want to read through the whole thing before we get started this Sunday. However, if you want to spread it out and read along with us, here’s the schedule:

January 15: Mark 1:1-20
January 22: Mark 1:21 – 3:35
January 29: Mark 4:1 – 6:29
February 5: Mark 6:30 – 7:37
February 12: Mark 8:1 – 10:52
February 19: Mark 11:1 – 16:19

My family and I spent our day off on Monday at the North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences in Raleigh, exploring the wonders of the natural world. We learned the difference between a water salamander and an eel (an eel has fins; a salamander has legs). We touched a hissing cockroach (ick), and petted a box turtle (cool). We saw the bones of a dinosaur millions of years old. We walked through the living conservatory and watched a blue morpho butterfly spread its wings.

On the main level of the museum is an exhibit of sea creatures: ghost crabs, baby sea turtles who scramble back to the ocean after they hatch, seahorses and fish of all sizes and colors. Suspended above is the skeleton of a giant whale, so big that it puts into perspective the size of a human life.

As I stood looking up at that enormous whale (praying for the strength of the steel cables holding it suspended from the ceiling), I thought of the “chorus of praise” Thandiwe talked about in her sermon last week. Psalm 148 describes the whole creation singing God’s glory: mountains, hills, fruit trees, cedars, wild animals, cattle, creeping things, flying birds, princes and rulers, men and women, old and young, sun and moon and shining stars, and even, verse 7, all the sea monsters – like that giant whale above my head.

Before we left the museum, I took one last look at a poster hanging on the wall on the fourth floor, kind of out of the way, not part of a major exhibit, but incredible nonetheless. It was a picture of something that will never be contained in a museum, something we’ll never quite be able to touch, something we’re just beginning to know how to explore. It was a composite photograph of the Milky Way galaxy, taken by three space telescopes to create a view we’ve never been able to see before. All those planets and stars, with at least one of them containing life as varied and beautiful as a whale and a butterfly.

I found myself thinking of another star – or, who knows? Maybe one of the very same – that guided some curious seekers to a house in Bethlehem several centuries ago. What they found there was not what they expected, maybe not even what they were looking for. But still, they fell to their knees and joined their voices in the chorus of praise.

What an incredible world God has created for us. What a gift to live in it together.

I have a collection of Advent devotional readings that I pull out every year. Even thought I’ve read it all before, I find something new every time. This week, these words jumped out at me:

 “The great question to us is whether we are still capable of being truly shocked or whether it is to remain so that we see thousands of things and know that they should not be and must not be, and that we get hardened to them. How many things have we become used to in the course of the years, of the weeks and months, so that we stand unshocked, unstirred, inwardly unmoved. Advent is a time when we ought to be shaken and brought to a realization of ourselves.”

These words were written by Alfred Delp, a Jesuit priest who was condemned and hanged in 1945 for his opposition to Hitler. He wrote this piece in a Nazi prison.

Today is the 70^th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, which marked the beginning of the United States’ involvement in a war that was already going on, the war that would reveal the terrible ugliness of humanity but also give birth to stories of courage and hope, like that of Alfred Delp.

It takes people like Delp, and so many others, who are willing to be shocked and shaken by what they see, people who are willing to point to the atrocities of our time and say, it does not have to be like this. There is another way.

This, I think, is why we in the church try to resist the rush toward Christmas. It’s why we squeeze an extra season – Advent – in between Thanksgiving and December 25. It’s why we focus on the waiting and watching, before we get to the celebrating.  It’s because we know that we need to be shaken. We know that there are still atrocities happening all around us. We know that we live in this in-between time, in a broken and hurting world, and so we are not ready to rush ahead to the celebration. Instead, we wait and watch, hopefully, expectantly.

But the good news is that the Christ has come and will come again. God’s peace will reign. God’s hope is everlasting. There is – and will be – good news of great joy.

May our lives be shaken as we wait.

It was quite a party.

Eighty-plus people – ranging in age from not-quite-one to 93 – including church members, friends, neighbors, and crew. At least that many hot dogs. Strollers, lawn chairs, wheelchairs, walkers, and dogs. Cameras galore. A perfect-weather evening with the bluest of Carolina skies and the kind of breeze that makes you realize that summer will be over soon, but not quite yet.

And one big, beautiful, brand-new steeple.

By the time the hot dogs were cleaned up and the last of the big trucks had pulled carefully out of the driveway, the sun had started sinking behind the trees and the whole parking lot was in the shade. The few of us left outside looked up at the new steeple and couldn’t help but notice that it hadn’t yet fallen under shadow.  “Look how the light shines on it,” someone said, and it was true: the bright white steeple was catching the last of the day’s sunlight and it stood illuminated, shining brighter than everything around it.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen that light, actually. I’d caught a glimpse of it earlier in the day, when the top spire of the steeple was dangling from the crane a few feet off the ground, almost ready to be hoisted up to the roof. It swung gently and spun a little bit in the breeze, and as it did, the sunlight glanced off it, a brief second of blinding light that suggested to me that there was more at work here than a simple construction project.

Maybe it’s silly to get so excited about a steeple. After all, it doesn’t do much. It just sits up there on the roof. But something about the way that light shines reminds me that the steeple is more than that. It represents our hope and trust that this congregation is going to be around for at least another 50 years, loving each other and serving our community. That cross on top – the one we saved from the original steeple – reminds us that we’re part of a story that began long ago and will continue long after we’re gone.

Psalm 123 begins this way:

“To you I lift up my eyes,
O you who are enthroned in the heavens!”

It’s something like that, I think, that we all felt last night, when the top spire settled into place and the cranes finally lowered their booms. We lifted up our eyes to that cross that points toward the heavens… and the light shined.

Yesterday afternoon, I tagged along with a group of folks from our Caring Friends ministry to deliver a prayer shawl to a church member who has been going through a difficult time. Caring Friends is a group that keeps up with church members and friends who aren’t able to come to church anymore; through cards and notes, visits and prayers, they remind these dear friends that even though we can’t be together in person, we are still part of the one body of Christ, still part of our family.

Recently, Caring Friends expanded their ministry to include the giving of prayer shawls made by members of the congregation. A prayer shawl is a simple shawl, hand knit or crocheted. They’re always lovely, but never elaborate; the beauty is not in the pattern of the yarn, but in the prayers that have been woven into the shawl by the person creating it.

It’s always a delight to go along on these prayer shawl deliveries. The group of us crams into the person’s living room, or apartment, or nursing home room, perching on the edge of the bed or the corner of a chair. We visit for a few minutes, sharing news of the church and relishing in the joy of catching up with old friends. There’s always a bit of laughter, a joke told, a story remembered. Then we offer the prayer shawl, reminding the recipient that it was made with love and infused with prayer. Almost instinctively, the person takes the shawl and drapes it around his or her shoulders, eager to be surrounded by the love of the church.

One of us reads a blessing that offers our hope for the shawl – that God’s grace may be felt through it, that the joy with which it was made might sustain and encourage the recipient especially when times are tough. One of us offers a prayer, lifting up any particular concerns and worries and giving thanks for the visit. Then we linger a bit, not really wanting to leave the place where God’s spirit is so richly felt. But finally, with another prayer and hugs all around, we say goodbye and make our way out.

I imagine that the room feels empty when we leave. But I hope that the shawl we leave behind offers a little bit of comfort, hope, and peace.