 In the pre-modern age, asking the question, “Got God?” would have been unthinkable. Everything in heaven and earth was an expression of the transcendent reality of the divine. Today, this question has a growing number of people responding, “Nope. Don’t need one.” Now, there are still plenty of folks who would say they did have God, or at least desired God in their lives. Thirty years ago, when I started teaching confirmation it was rare to have a student say they did not believe in God. Today, it is a frequent statement, and I suspect the majority would say they did not have or need faith if they felt safe enough to be honest.
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 The new year came and went. There were parties, countdowns, promises about fresh starts. We celebrated (if you do that sort of thing). Then we went through the weekend. Some of you are probably still making the rounds with extended family, squeezing in one more Christmas gathering because there are just so many people to visit this time of year.
And then, back to work. Back to regular life. Back to whatever your days usually hold.  According to St. Luke, when Mary and Joseph arrived in Bethlehem the town’s population had swelled because of a census. Normally, people would go to the home of a relative and seek shelter. The obligations of hospitality in that culture would ensure an open door. The accommodation would be a guestroom, perhaps just a corner of the living quarters partitioned with a blanket for privacy.
 Take a moment to stop doing all that you think must be done to have a merry Christmas. The greatest gift we can all receive has already been given at the birth of a babe in Bethlehem. Take a minute to turn down the jingle bells and the holly, jolly, songs to soak in the silent night, the holy night. Look past the glare and sparkle of the blinking lights to see love’s pure light beaming from the holy face of grace.
 I know a pastor (and there are more than one) who struggles to get any kind of holiday groove on each year. At times seeming more grinch-like than elfin, the trappings of the run up to Christmas just make this pastor a little cranky. I don’t want to name him, but maybe we can call him Pastor Ebenezer. He’s been known to hide the baby Jesus in manger scenes until Christmas actually occurs. His response to trimming the tree is as likely “bah-humbug” than delight.
 We live in a world that has forgotten how to wait.
Everything is instant now. Same-day delivery. Algorithms that predict what we want before we know we want it. Waiting feels like a glitch in the system, an inefficiency to be solved. But the Church still knows how to wait. Not the passive, resigned waiting of people who've given up, but the active, expectant waiting of Advent. The kind of waiting that believes something is coming.  Holy Trinity Lutheran Church was founded in 1950. Ankeny’s population had grown to a little over 1,200 people and prospects for continued growth were buoyed by the new John Deere sprayer production facility that had moved into the old munitions plant in 1947. The American Lutheran Church started a mission that met in the American Legion Hall in uptown and became Holy Trinity.
 It's Thanksgiving week. Families are traveling. Tables are being set. We're preparing for the gathering; the food, the conversations, the complicated dynamics that come with bringing everyone together. There's excitement and anxiety, joy and exhaustion, all mixed together.
And woven through it all is this expectation that we should be grateful. That we should feel thankful. That this should be a time of abundance and warmth.  I know that the title seems backwards. I mean, ends always follow beginnings, right? We Christians, however, are a peculiar people. This Sunday we will observe the Festival of Christ the King. It is an ending. We have spent the last year telling the story of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection. Our gospel guides have been Luke and John. This Sunday we will celebrate and anticipate the completion, the consummation, of the reign of God and redemption of all things.
 Every three months they take pictures of my scarred liver. The scar is a good thing, a friend, a sign of grace. The scar is where the cancer used to be. The scar is a sign of life where death used to reside.
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