Christmas Eve Sermon: Persistent Light

 Christmas Eve 2024

With bellies full from our shared meal, we gather in the living room, and turn off the lights. All that illumines the faces of those gathered is a single candle, flickering behind a transparency, a paper cutout of a silhouette of the holy family with the words, written above it, “The light shines in the darkness.” One by one, people take the flame from that one candle and light other candles that have been placed around the room, candles which illuminate angels, stars, or other scenes from the beloved story of Jesus’ birth. As they light candles, people share their stories, their prayers, their hopes for this season, and together we hold these offerings, and sing a carol, pointing us ever toward Emmanuel, God-with-us. As time passes, the darkness that once shrouded the room, has been scattered by the flickering flames of people’s hopes, prayers, and memories. A light indeed shines in the darkness.

I’ve just described a beloved family tradition from my mom’s side of the family. My mom remembers that her older brother, when they used to do this as kids, would always choose the darkest corner he could find, and light that candle, desiring as he did to bring light into the darkest corners of the living room, and the world. 

This memory came to mind when I came across a poem this year by Jan Richardson, called “How the Light Comes.” She writes, 

I cannot tell you

how the light comes.

What I know

is that it is more ancient

than imagining.

That it travels

across an astounding expanse

to reach us.

That it loves

searching out

what is hidden,

what is lost,

what is forgotten

or in peril

or in pain.

Imagine that – a Light that loves searching out what is hidden, lost, forgotten, in peril, or in pain. It seems to me there is a lot of those things, in this life, and we often feel it more profoundly at the holidays. I think of a friend whose husband recently lost his battle with cancer, and another friend who fears this could be her last Christmas with her dad, who is battling ALS. I think of those who are fearful of what the new year will bring, and those who do not feel they can live authentic lives, for fear of their safety. I think of those who are estranged from family, or who lack sufficient work or reliable housing, or who are far from home. Of course, there are also many here tonight and everywhere whose hearts are filled to bursting with joy, and what a blessing that is! But the truth is, while there is plenty of joy and hope and love to go around this season, there is also sadness and pain for past losses, or for current realities, and there is anxiety and fear for the future. Ignoring that won’t make it go away.

That is why I am so drawn to Richardson’s beautiful claim that the ancient Light that “travels across an astounding expanse to reach us,” loves to seek out these places we may keep hidden beneath a mask of “everything’s fine,” places with peril or pain for body or spirit. Like my uncle, a boy lighting a candle in the darkest corner, the Light searches for the darkest corner of the room, and goes to it, illuminating what would have stayed in darkness and never seen the light of hope. 

That’s what it was like that first Christmas night. We have sanitized this story over time, making it more sweet than fearful, more cute than painful. It is easy to miss or overlook why this light shining in the darkness, this babe born in a manger, was so important. But remember, Israel was at this time an occupied territory, and Roman occupation was often more peril than picnic. They had been waiting for hundreds of years to hear a word of hope from God, but instead they felt abandoned, lost, forgotten. The year that Emmanuel, God-with-us, was born, the earth was more than ready for a savior. They were living in a land of deep darkness, just like the people in our reading this evening from Isaiah. They longed to see a great light. They longed for that light to, as Richardson writes, search out what is hidden, what is lost, what is forgotten, or in peril, or in pain. 

And we still feel that longing for the light, albeit now for different reasons. It is part of why we love going out to look at Christmas lights displays, why we love to light candles as the days grow darker through December. We long for brightness to dispel the darkness! It is also why we practice acts of generosity during this season, why we love to hear and watch heartwarming stories that restore our faith in humanity, and make us feel hopeful. We are yearning for that ancient light, that searches out the darkest corners of the room and our hearts.

I heard one such story this season, that took place in Toledo, Ohio in December of 2018. At a large intersection in town was a huge weed that had pushed through the concrete and managed to avoid getting cut down. It was a giant, persistent eye sore. As a joke one day, someone hung some tinsel on the weed, making it into something of a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. The next day, someone added an ornament, as well as a sign saying, “The Christmas Weed.” The day after that, people started leaving gifts by the tree – free gifts for anyone to take! By now, this ugly thing at a busy intersection was really getting some traction – someone made a Facebook page for it. 10,000 people started following, and as the days went on, more gifts were added. Before long, there were lawn reindeer, a costumed Santa waving to the cars passing by, and people started taking their families to sing carols at the Christmas Weed. Hats, scarves, and blankets appeared, free to whoever needed them. This organic effort, begun by a tiny piece of reflective plastic tinsel, was the light of the town! 

But then, two days before Christmas Eve, someone came and took everything, and destroyed the weed, snuffing out that light. Yet still, the Christmas Weed, and the light, persisted. There appeared on the spot a potted weed, very similar to the one that was taken. Within hours there was more there than had been there before. A nearby Walgreens put out bins for the influx of items. They provided hot chocolate and opened their parking lot for visitors. Police directed traffic so people could safely visit the Weed. Local agencies took turns picking up donations. One pastor serving in Toledo said, “The Christmas Weed was the light and hope the town needed [that year].” Another resident commented, “May every town be blessed with such a Weed.” 

You see – the Light loves searching out what is hidden, lost, forgotten, in peril or in pain. The Light searches out the weeds – the unwanted, unsightly intruders, and brightens them with hope. The Light pursues the darkest corners, where we try to hide the things that hurt, and as Richardson’s poem goes on, it “works its way / into the deepest dark / that enfolds you, / though it may seem / long ages in coming / or arrive in a shape / you did not foresee” – like the shape of an ungainly Christmas Weed, or a single flame in the darkest corner of the room, or a babe born to peasants in a stable in a backwater town. 

The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light. It is the light that persists like a weed. It is the light that will not allow us to feel alone in our sadness. It is the light that, in the words of Howard Thurman that our choir will sing tonight, brings “hope where despair keeps watch… courage for fears ever present… peace for tempest-tossed days… grace to ease heavy burdens… [and] love to inspire all [our] living.” 

Let us turn toward this Light, this Christmas, opening ourselves to it, ready to receive what it offers. May the light shining in the darkness, that shown from a lowly manger and brightened the night, shine also in our hearts. Amen. 

Sermon: Extraordinary Emmanuel (Dec. 22, 2024)

Advent 4C
December 22, 2024
Luke 1:39-55

INTRODUCTION

Finally, on this 4th Sunday of Advent, we get some texts that sound Christmasy. Micah will announce the importance of that little town of Bethlehem, which is the same town from which King David came. Hebrews will tell us why the coming of Jesus is important. But the really Christmasy text will be the Gospel, which tells the story of Mary’s visitation to Elizabeth and Mary’s song of praise. Let me situate you: Just before the part of the Gospel we’ll hear today is the Annunciation, when the angel Gabriel comes to Mary to tell her that she will be the mother of God. When Mary is, understandably, perplexed by this news, Gabriel adds that in fact, Mary’s aging cousin Elizabeth is also with child, and “it is the 6th month for she who was said to be barren, for nothing is impossible with God.” (You may remember Elizabeth, wife of Zechariah, from two weeks ago when we heard Zechariah’s song as our Psalm. So, Elizabeth is pregnant with John the Baptist.) Then the angel departs from Mary, and that’s where our Gospel reading will pick up, with Mary leaving “with haste” to go see the cousin the angel mentioned. Upon hearing Elizabeth’s greeting, Mary will respond by singing what is now known as the Magnificat, so named because of the first Latin word (“My soul magnifies the Lord”). 

The Magnificat is beloved, but has also been seen through history as a dangerous text. Just notice how very revolutionary it is, describing a major reversal in the usual order. As one paraphrase of this song in our hymnal says, “[God] is turning the world around.” This is not mild stuff here! So, watch in our readings and hymns today, for phrases and imagery of the ways God is turning, changing your world, or the whole world. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from the one who is and who was and who is to come. Amen.

After worship today, we will hold our annual Christmas pageant. (It’s gonna be “the best” – really, please plan to stay for it!) Pageants like this are a beloved part of the Christmas season, because the mysterious and wonderful story of that first Christmas is one that captivates the imaginations of people of all ages. What is it that draws us in so? The angels? The animals? The kings and shepherds? The Son of God in a feeding trough, of all places?

Personally, I think it is the mystery of it all, and the unexpected bringing together of all those things, ordinary and divine. Though the story is so familiar to us, depicted on neighborhood lawns and greeting cards, and retold in countless children’s picture books, it remains an absolutely mysterious event in which the ordinary and extraordinary are held together in ways both comforting and challenging, both familiar and baffling. It is a mysterious paradox. 

We know this about the night of Jesus’ birth. But I was struck by the same impression in the part of the story we hear today, about Mary’s response to the news of this divine conception, in which ordinary and miraculous come together. Let’s take a look, and as I tell this story, notice how the ordinary and the extraordinary are woven together. 

…

Gabriel has just returned to heaven, and Mary is now standing alone once again in her humble home in Nazareth. Her whole body seems to be vibrating as phrases the angel said continue running through her head: “You will bear a son… He will reign over the house of Jacob forever… he will be called Son of God… the Holy Spirit will come upon you.” Her heart is pounding, and her mind is racing with questions. Will Joseph leave her? What will her parents say? What will the townspeople say – she is unwed, after all, and who will believe this outlandish story about an angel? Mary’s breathing speeds up and her skin begins to feel hot and prickly.

But then, another phrase floats into her consciousness: “Your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son…. For nothing will be impossible with God.” All at once, Mary knows: she must go to Elizabeth, to her relative. She must form this small community of women who know in their literal beings what it is to be touched by God. It will be a difficult and dangerous journey to get there – it is 70 miles from Nazareth, and young Mary, no more than 15 years old, will be taking it alone and on foot. It is a downright foolish idea, but she also knows it is right. With fierceness and conviction, and without overthinking it, Mary quickly leaves for the hill country. 

…

Elizabeth is in her 6th month, and her aging body is feeling the ache of moving into the third trimester of her pregnancy. Grateful though she is for this miracle, she must admit that the miraculous nature of her status is not at the forefront of her mind, with her back and hips constantly sore. She would benefit from a full night’s sleep without having to get up to relieve herself every hour. She is also fearful of the ever-looming prospect of labor, especially as she is such an old woman. She knows this pregnancy is a blessing, and something very incredible indeed, and she is grateful… but she is also acutely aware that even God’s miracles don’t come easy.

Elizabeth is out doing her daily chores one day, the relentless sun causing beads of sweat to dampen her forehead. Zechariah is inside, having dozed off while studying Torah. Elizabeth sighs, and reaches up to wipe her brow and stretch her aching back, and… she squints at the horizon. Someone is approaching their home. With a gasp, she realizes it is her young cousin, Mary, looking grateful and exhausted as she approaches. Elizabeth laughs, astonished and delighted. At that moment, the Holy Spirit enters Elizabeth like a breath. Her hand moves to her belly – she feels baby John leap in her womb, already prophesying and pointing, Elizabeth somehow knows, toward the Messiah. The two women come together, embracing, both weary and jubilant, laughing in joy and relief. Elizabeth’s swollen belly bumps up against Mary’s still flat one, and Elizabeth says into Mary’s hair, “Blessed are you among women! Blessed is the fruit of your womb!” Soon, both women are weeping, shedding the tears they have kept bottled up but now feel safe to release. The power of this community overcomes them – here they can let down their guard, and be their authentic selves. Here, they can share together in joy and fear, they can celebrate, and listen, and cry, and simply be together. Here they experience the gift of incarnate community. 

Elizabeth hurries Mary inside for a seat and a drink of water, and they begin to talk in the eager tones of two women who have missed each other and need to catch up, and have incredible news to share. Mary shares her fears along with her certainty of God’s plan, and Elizabeth bears witness, holds it all, and showers Mary with words of blessing. “Do you know what, my dear Mary?” she asks. She tenderly touches her belly again. “Even as you were arriving, my little John knew something marvelous was happening. I felt him leap for joy in my womb!” Mary laughs through her tears, wiping her nose. Elizabeth goes on, looking Mary deep in the eyes, and says, “Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.” Mary feels the impact of her cousin’s statement, absorbing its truth. There would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord. She remembers the angel’s words, the words that had become her mantra, carrying her the 70 miles to Elizabeth’s home, “Nothing is impossible with God.” 

Suddenly, Mary doesn’t feel fear anymore. God would fulfill what he had spoken to her. God would fulfill all that he had promised throughout the ages, to Abraham and his descendants forever, she believed that. Before she knows what has come over her, Mary is singing – singing her own version of the song of Hannah, who had longed for a child, and of all the women of faith who have guided Mary all her life. Singing a song of revolution and trust and assurance in God. Taking the posture of a prophet, she sings of God’s promises as if they have already been fulfilled: “God has scattered the proud! He has brought down the powerful and lifted up the lowly! He has filled the hungry with good things!” Delighted, Elizabeth joins in, and the two women, this first Christian community to gather in celebration of Jesus Christ, sing a holy duet, praising God with defiance and faith. 

… 

I love imagining this story this way, in some ways so ordinary and in others, so extraordinary. I love imagining that Elizabeth and Mary both experienced the same pains and fears we still understand, those that go with pregnancy and with an uncertain future, and that in the midst of those pains and fears they still found ways to praise God, to proclaim their blessedness to each other and to the world for generations to come. I love that they come together in community – an inclination so utterly human that even a baby knows to pursue it. I love the mind-boggling pairing of things so familiar and completely unknowable, and somehow, it works! 

The hymn we will sing in a moment captures this: “In a momentary meeting of eternity and time, Mary learned that she would carry both the mortal and divine.” That momentary meeting of eternity and time – that is the essence of the incarnation. That the ineffable, omniscient, omnipotent God of the universe would, for a time, choose to become contained in flesh and bones, grow inside a woman, and know what it is to have an earthly existence, and all its joys and pains, and to assure us of his presence with us in all of it. 

I love that this story is so ordinary that I can picture it vividly, that it makes me think of times in my own life in which I gathered with a dear friend or relative and shared the joy of an unexpected miracle. And, I love that this story is so extraordinary that it continues to captivate listeners many generations later. In a couple days we will hear the rest of the story of God’s birth among us, but that won’t be the end. God will continue to be present with us in all the ordinary moments – doing chores, traveling, coming together in community, sharing joys and fears. God is Extraordinary Emmanuel, God-with-us, in all of our ordinary lives. And we are blessed for it!

Let us pray… Emmanuel, you desire to be with us in all things. Open our eyes to see you in all of our ordinary moments, so we will always know what it is to be blessed. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Photo: 

Pittman, Lauren Wright. Mary and Elizabeth, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=57086 [retrieved December 23, 2024]. Original source: Lauren Wright Pittman, http://www.lewpstudio.com/.

Sermon: Listening for a new story (December 8, 2024)

Advent 2C
December 8, 2024
Luke 1:68-70
Luke 3:1-6

INTRODUCTION

Here is some Pastor Johanna trivia for you: My favorite Gospel is… the Gospel of Luke. One reason for this is that, as you know, I love music, and packed into these first two chapters are no fewer than four gorgeous canticles, or scriptural songs: there is Zechariah’s song, which we hear today; and Mary’s song, which we’ll hear in two weeks; the Gloria, which we will hear the angels sing on Christmas; and finally Simeon’s song, which we will hear in February on the day of the “Presentation of our Lord.” In fact, so beautiful are these songs, that they have been incorporated into the Church’s liturgies since liturgies existed, and you can find them throughout our hymnal. I included in the bulletin a guide for where you can find them all – have a look!

Today, as I said, we will hear Zechariah’s song as our Psalm, and we will be using the version that is a part of our Lutheran Morning Prayer liturgy. Just a quick note on that – after the choir introduces the refrain, you are invited to sing the whole thing (in harmony, if you are so moved!), but if you find that too confusing, then just sing the refrain whenever it comes up, and follow along with the verses. 

So that’s the Psalm, but it connects directly to our Gospel reading, which features John the Baptist, who always shows up this 2nd Sunday of Advent. John, you may recall, is a relative of Jesus, the son of Mary’s cousin Elizabeth and Zechariah (of canticle fame!). I will tell you more of that story in my sermon, but for now, I want you to know that John was also a person specially selected by God since his conception. The song Zechariah sings, that we will sing as the Psalm, is a prophetic one that his dad sings on the day John is presented in the Temple. He declares: “And you, child, shall be called the prophet of the Most High, for you will go before the Lord to prepare the way, to give God’s people knowledge of salvation by the forgiveness of their sins.” And that is what the Baptist will do in our reading today from Luke.

Ah, I just love how the Advent texts all connect – it is so obvious in Advent because this moment for which we wait, when Christ comes, is the fulfillment of promises made from the beginning. And Advent is when we see all the pieces falling into place. As you listen, watch for those connections (between readings and with our various hymns and prayers), even as you consider how those connections extend to us still today. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from the one who is and who was and who is to come. Amen.

We are all pretty familiar with the story of Jesus’ birth – the angel Gabriel coming to Mary to tell her she would bear God’s son, Mary and Joseph traveling to Bethlehem and Jesus born in a manger, an angel choir singing praise. Maybe you also remember that before going to Bethlehem, Mary traveled while pregnant to see her relative Elizabeth, who was also miraculously pregnant in her old age. But there is a lot more than that to Elizabeth’s story, which is woven all throughout the Mary story, and today it takes center stage. 

Allow me to fill in the gaps. At the start of Luke’s Gospel, after a brief introduction, Luke tells us about an elderly couple, Zechariah and Elizabeth. Both are devout Jews, both from priestly families. But, to their dismay, Elizabeth has been unable to conceive, and they are childless. One day, Zechariah is selected to be the priest who gets to go all the way into the Holy of Holies, the very center of the Temple where God was thought to dwell. While he is in there, who should show up but the angel Gabriel! Zechariah is terrified – angels are not like the sweet cherubs that hang from Christmas trees and adorn shop window displays. There is a reason they always begin their messages with, “Do not be afraid,” and this was no exception. Gabriel goes on to tell him that he and Elizabeth are going to have a baby. Zechariah is understandably stunned by this news, and says as much. “But how? I’m old, and my wife is no spring chicken either!” Gabriel has no time for such nonsense. “Dude,” he says (and I’m paraphrasing the Greek here), “I’m Gabriel. You think I’d make this up? You know what? Since you didn’t believe me, how about this: you will be mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur.” And so, when Zechariah comes out of the sanctuary to an impatient crowd wondering what took him so long in there, he can only flap his arms about, but no sound comes out.

Why didn’t Zechariah believe Gabriel’s good news? 

Perhaps it’s because Zechariah was so stuck in his own story, or his own version of his story, that his ears and heart were already closed to the possibility that God might have a different story in mind for him. He may not have liked his reality, but still, he was so comfortable in what he told himself, and what others told him, that he struggled to be open to the story that God wanted to tell with Zechariah’s life. 

I don’t blame him at all for this. I think we all fall victim to this from time to time! Even if we pray and pray for something to change, when the possibility of a different story is put right in front of us, we find ourselves unable to perceive or accept it. The old story is just so familiar and worn in, like an old pair of shoes, and stepping into new shoes is so uncomfortable. 

Maybe that’s why God imposed a nine-month silence upon Zechariah! Nine months for him to just keep his mouth shut, and listen to what God is doing. For nine months, his wife’s belly grew, and he couldn’t talk, but could only receive that gift. When Mary came to visit, announcing her own miraculous pregnancy, and when his own child leapt in his wife’s womb, he could only receive. As a new era, and two Spirit-filled boys, gestated in these two unlikely wombs, an elderly woman and an unwed teenager, Zechariah could not add his own words to the story – he could only receive it. 

Could this be an invitation to us, too? To keep our mouths shut, and just listen not to the story we tell ourselves, but to the story that God is trying to tell us? To listen to God’s new story, or perhaps a whole new way of understanding the old one?

What old stories am I talking about? Perhaps it is the one about your string of co-dependent relationships, a pattern that you have unwillingly taken on yourself because that’s what you saw in your own parents. Or, the story where you assume something must be terribly wrong with you because of your sexuality or your abilities or your past, and so you believe yourself to be unworthy of love. Or, the one where you can’t show any vulnerability because that would be admitting you are weak, or worse, not in control. Or the story where your faith isn’t enough, your gifts aren’t enough, you aren’t enough. These, and so many others, are the old, worn stories I’m talking about. 

So what would happen if we could put aside our pride, or expectations, or assumptions about what we deserve or not, and instead took a page out of Zechariah’s book, stopped talking for a while, and sat in the quiet of this Advent time, and just listened for the chance that something else, a new story, might be possible? Might we hear of something new waiting to be born? Or something needing to die? Might we hear something resembling the birth, life, death and resurrection of Christ himself?

That’s really the essence of the Jesus story, and all its various characters: it is the story of God telling the world, in no uncertain terms, that a different story, a new life, is possible. That new birth is possible where there was none. That hope is possible where there was only despair. That love is possible where there was only hate and fear. That relationship is possible even when we have done everything in our power to break it. And these are new stories that we can perceive if we just shut up for a while, and let God’s telling of our story gestate in our beings, and grow into something that becomes so much our own, that it becomes the story that bursts forth from our own mouths.

That’s what happens to Zechariah. Eight days after John is born, he is brought to the Temple, as was the custom, to be circumcised and named. Elizabeth says he is John, but they want to name him Zechariah after his father. Zechariah, still unable to speak, scrawls onto a writing tablet, “His name is John,” and suddenly the story that has taken root in his heart and mind these nine months bursts forth in the form of praise – and he sings this new song, now memorialized in our liturgies, the Benedictus. “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel. He has come to his people and set them free!” Free from their old stories that bore no fruit. Free from that which held us back from being the people God made us to be. Free from “the hands of our enemies.” “Free to worship God without fear” – fear that we were not good enough, not faithful enough. God’s story for us, you see, is a story of freedom.

This is God’s tender compassion for us: that things do not have to stay how they were. That we do not have to be victims of our old stories, in which we have to do something to earn God’s love or favor. This is the dawn from on high that breaks upon us, shining on those of us who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, unable to see a way out. This story, God’s story, is the one that guides our feet into the way of peace.

Let us pray… God of newness and life, we sometimes get so stuck in our own, old stories that we cannot see a way out. Enter into our stories, that the dawn would break upon us, free us from all that holds us bound, and guide our feet into the way of peace. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: How to have hope when the sky is falling (December 1, 2024)

Advent 1C: How to have hope when the sky is falling
December 1, 2024
Jeremiah 33:14-16
Luke 21:25-36

INTRODUCTION

If you were hoping to catch a glimpse of the babe in a manger today, on this first Sunday of Advent, I have bad news for you! Each year in Advent, we start not with the first coming, but with the second coming, and the scary signs that it may be upon us. We will see this in Luke, as Jesus warns his disciples to keep alert, to be on guard against all the things that would try to distract us from seeing God’s kingdom coming among us. Honestly, it is a helpful reminder, in a season full of busyness and distraction, to stay focused on what Christ actually came for: to give hope to a world in despair, and to draw our attention toward the God who saves.

And that is what we will see in our readings today. We’ll hear a bit from Jeremiah, normally known for his doom and gloom, but today he takes a break from that, in the part of the book known as the Book of Consolation. Even in the midst of the devastation of Jerusalem by Babylon, and Israel’s exile, Jeremiah promises here that this worst possible scenario does not last forever. Salvation and safety are coming, justice and righteousness are coming. 

Both the Psalm and Thessalonians are full of hope and joy in a God who keeps promises. 

And in Luke, Jesus does not shy away from naming the challenges ahead, but also gives some helpful guidance on staying focused on the God who saves. The original audiences of these texts were all enduring difficult times, and we know a thing or two about that, too. So as you listen, hear these words of hope and consolation both as being honest about reality, and drawing us ever toward seeing how God is breaking into our difficult realities all the time. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from the one who is and who was and who is to come. Amen.

How do you respond when disaster strikes? 

Do you start breathing fast, heart racing? Do you cry? Do you get very calm and calculating, in order to get through the crisis at hand, and deal with the emotions later? Do you sink into a depression, unable to process all the emotion? 

Or maybe the better question is, what do you need when disaster strikes? We talked about this last week in our confirmation class. We had a guest speaker, who is a chaplain at Strong Hospital. He talked about how he cares for patients, families and staff when they are dealing with perhaps the worst thing that has ever happened to them. Mostly, he said, people don’t need platitudes or promises we can’t keep about how “everything will be okay.” What they do need is to know they aren’t alone, and to know that their feelings matter. The chaplain’s role is to give suffering people a space to name their feelings, and then to hold those feelings with them.

There is a sense of relief that comes from just naming a thing what it is, without rushing away from it. It is a real gift to have someone in our lives who can cry with us, who can name the pain and not be so afraid of it that they need to move us past it just as quickly as possible.

That is what we get, this first Sunday in Advent. Our Gospel reading does not shy away from naming the difficulty of this life, and the struggles that may very well lie ahead. It may seem a strange way to start this season, when the world around us has a literal sheen on it, all dressed up with holiday cheer, sparkling lights, and cheerful music. Is that why we love this holiday season so much? Because it masks so well all the things that are wrong, or at least takes our mind away from them for a while? Well, there is a certain an appeal to that, but we don’t get off so easy in the Church. No, we start the season instead by staring those things straight in the face: “Things are rough, and they are going to get rougher.” And the implied question, “So, what are you going to do about it?” What do you do, what do you need, when disaster strikes?

If naming the struggle is the challenge of Advent, the gift of Advent is its focus on hope, and living in the hope of what is to come. No matter how bad it looks, don't give up the faith. Hang in there, because God is in control. Fear happens; this is inevitable. Life is full of the unknown, the frustrating, the scary, the devastating, and things can turn for the worse in an instant. But in that, we have a hope we can cling to, an interruption that is louder and more powerful than anything life can serve us, and that is the hope that comes along with that babe in a manger. This is the salvation that Jeremiah promises in our first lesson today. It is the salvation we experience right now. And it is the salvation for which we still wait, as we await Christ’s second coming. That is why we call Jesus the one who is and who was and who is to come. He is God-with-us, every step of the way.

That’s all well and good, but how, with so many competing forces, do we keep our eyes and hearts focused on the possibility of that hopeful interruption? Jesus gives us three ideas. First, he says, “don’t let your hearts be weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of life.” That can be a pretty tall order, because there are so very many worries of life! At our evening prayer service last week, we talked about finding ways to give thanks in everything, even if we don’t give thanks for everything. When we can do this, our hearts can be opened to seeing God working in those things. In all things, even the most annoying or frustrating, there is the possibility for a gift, for a glimpse of God’s grace. As for dissipation and drunkenness… well, think of these behaviors not only literally, but as representative of all the distractions of life in general, and this season in particular. One of my personal goals this Advent is to start each day with a moment of mindfulness, some quiet time for me to focus and not feel rushed, and be fully present in my body without getting carried away by my thoughts. What’s a practice that would help you to do that this season?

The next thing Jesus urges us to do is to “be alert at all times.” Even as we strive to find some time to ourselves for peace and focus, we never stop paying attention. Remember that Christ is the one who is and who was and who is to come – that means that Christ is already among us! He points us today toward a fig tree, how we see the leaves start to sprout and we know summer is near. So we, too, can see glimpses of Christ’s kingdom in such ordinary things – a kind smile from a stranger, a parent comforting their child, even in things that might normally have annoyed us! What if we shift our perspective, so that instead of looking for things that are wrong, we look for ways Christ is showing up? When we look for something, after all, we tend to find it. So, let’s look for glimpses of God’s kingdom, in all things! 

And finally, Jesus tells us to pray. Pray for strength, for endurance, for patience as we wait for salvation. Really, this should be the first thing – for how can we do anything without the power of prayer to fuel us? Maybe you can pray during that time you’ve set apart for yourself. Maybe in your car between errands, or at red lights. Maybe you could pray through setting up your nativity set, or whatever other Advent and Christmas themed décor you have in your house. Find God in these ordinary things, too, and let them inspire you to prayer.

We’re still several weeks away from the Peace that is born in a stable, that angels will sing and that will bring shepherds and kings alike to their knees. And while we wait – not only for our celebration of the first coming, but also for the second coming – we will encounter many things that are decidedly not peaceful. During this time, this Advent season, we are given a great gift: an interruption that at once acknowledges our fears, and promises that salvation is coming, an interruption that claims that hope is possible, and can be found even in the most ordinary of moments. Let us cling to this hope, this season, and every season, as we await the coming of our Lord.

Let us pray… Lord of Hope, you are the one who is and who was and who is to come. Help us to notice the blessings you bring, to be alert and ready for your presence among us, to pray for strength as we wait, and to live in the hope that is our Lord Jesus Christ. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.