There is a tremendous, incredible, timeless power humming silently in the stories of our faith. There is a life giving energy waiting for us to be ready to receive it. When we talk about the living word ­ God's still active spirit in these old, old stories- it is this electricity of which we speak. When we are open to it, when we truly connect, the current runs through us and we know it.

On Friday night twenty-five adults who had driven from all over Maryland came to be immersed in stories. It was the first day of our annual Godly Play training workshop with Jerome Berryman. But we did not simply get immersed in stories. We were picked up and carried away.

For a day and a half, Jerome taught us about liturgy. He spoke of the cycle of the church year and the colors of the calendar. He taught about baptism and communion. Pictures and puzzles and wooden people paraded across felt strips and we traveled through Advent and Christmas, Lent and Easter ­ we saw Christ rise from the dead. We sat in hard chairs for three hours Friday night and for many more on Saturday. But it seemed like no time at all. We had not listened to a lecture. We heard stories, lots of stories. No, we didn't just hear them, we entered them., and the stories entered us.

We felt the expectation of Advent, Jerome lit candles for each week and told us about the prophets who longed for the coming of this different kind of a king. We watched the father Joseph and the mother Mary make their way to Bethlehem. We shivered with the shepherds when the angel spoke. Then we ran with the shepherds, in our imaginations, across the fields to Bethlehem to find the Christ child in a manger.

We learned how wise the Magi were. They knew when to plant and when to harvest by looking at the stars. By looking at the night sky, and their carefully detailed star maps, the Magi could tell travelers when it was safe to cross the high mountain passes without danger of snowstorm. And when the Magi saw the wild star in the heavens that wasn't on any of their maps they knew something amazing was about to happen, Jerome told us. The Magi were intensely curious so they traveled a huge distance to investigate what the star might mean ­ they came to Bethlehem perhaps from as far away as the shores of the Caspian Sea.

By this point in the story, we were no longer in Monkton and the centuries had melted away. We were swept into the heart of the story. The words were more than words. The paper and wood and felt before us were as real as flesh and blood and we knew truth in a way that was beyond history or science.

Godly Play will do this. So will good liturgy, done well. So will retreats and all manner of other spiritual practices. But time and attention are required. In order to enter the wonder I described above, each of us had to leave somewhere else. We had to choose to spend hours sitting still rather than running around doing six other things. We showed up. We got ready. And when the time was right we had an encounter with the holy. The words were spoken and we heard them, deeply.

Our experience is not new. There is a powerful precedent, right in this morning's Gospel.

Jesus, filled with the power of the spirit, walked out of the desert into Galilee. When he came to Nazareth he went to the synagogue on the sabbath day. He had just spent 40 days and nights in the desert, getting ready, seeking clarity and overcoming temptation. It was Jesus' practice to set aside time, every day, for prayer. Now he was coming for communal worship, as was also his custom. So he entered the synagogue and he stood and read the words from Isaiah. Jesus read the words from the scroll in his hands, "the Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor."

Jesus read on, "He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lordıs favor."

And somewhere in the midst of the reading, the words that Jesus were speaking were no longer simply the prophecy of Isaiah's hope. Between one syllable and the next the sense shifted. The words became Jesus' proclamation of identity.

This ambiguous moment hung in the air while Jesus rolled up the scroll and handed it back to the attendant. But when Jesus sat down to teach, his self-recognition become inescapable. "Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing," Jesus said to the people of his village.

This is a very clear statement. It was as if Jesus had simply said "I am the Messiah!"
We won't get to hear the hometown crowdıs reaction until next week. But all this week we can ponder the words in our own hearts.
Can it be true?
Read the words over and over to yourselves this week, slowly. Do we dare to stretch them across the chasms that imprison us. Are we willing to walk across the emptiness in our lives on the strength of these words?

If we enter into the story, and we let it enter us, we may find vision and freedom.
Are we willing to let this story take root in our life?
People give their life up to stories all the time­ stories about stuff, stories about careers, stories about who we think we should be in the world.
Are we willing to risk letting a story about a Savior truly enter our lives?
If we do, it will change us in ways we cannot begin to predict.
It is a risky proposition. But it is full of promise.

All I know is that a very few words can change everything.
Most of us can remember a time when the word "yes,"changed our future.
Most of us can remember a time when the simple phrase "I love you,"
changed the whole world.

We know the longing that is in us.
The one sent to save us has announced his arrival.
Now it is our turn to speak.