Advent 1B
November 29, 2020
Isaiah 64:1-9, 1 Cor. 1:3-9, Mark 13: 24-37
Full service can be viewed here.
INTRODUCTION
While our culture tells us that Advent is the start of counting down to Christmas, the first Sunday of Advent begins not with a note of Christmas-y joy, but one of despair (I know, not what any of us were looking for today!). Our readings today reflect a realization that humankind is at the end of its rope, that we cannot save ourselves by our own power, and that we are in desperate need of a savior – which, it turns out, is the perfect posture to have as we look toward the first coming of that savior on Christmas! Still, even as we prepare to celebrate that blessed event, we also grieve that the world has yet to be redeemed, and so in this season of Advent, we pray that Christ would come again – soon! – to rule over God’s creation in power and justice.
You will see both of these themes in our readings today – the despair and the hope. You will see the despair in Isaiah and the Psalm, especially that first line of Isaiah. You’ll hear the people’s longing for a savior, but notice especially on that word, “YET,” how Isaiah’s tone changes. Isaiah trusts God even when God seems absent. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians offers words of encouragement to a Church that is waiting for what they believed was the imminent return of Christ. And the passage from Mark, known as “Mark’s little apocalypse,” looks forward with both awe and thanksgiving (and perhaps a little terror!) to the coming of the Lord.
It’s a pretty anxious bunch of texts, all in all. So as you listen, just notice that anxiety, keeping in mind the unique anxiety of our own time, and hear how God speaks to it. Let’s listen.
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| Unfiltered photo of San Francisco sky this summer |
Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
Each year we think Advent will greet us with warm fuzzies. This year especially, if social media was any indication, people were really looking forward to some nice sparkly lights and greenery and our beautiful red banners to bring some cheer into this dark, anxious world. And while those decorations do help some, the readings today do not, at least not at first.
“Oh, that you would tear open the heavens and come down!” Isaiah cries. Come down, already, God – where are you? Your people are suffering down here! We need you, right now! The Psalmist adds his plea, “Restore us, O God! Stir up your might, and come!” Our passage from Mark, the “little apocalypse,” describes a day that sounds a little too close to some days this year, in which “the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will fall from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.” And by the way, we do not know the day or hour this will happen. We simply have to wait and watch and keep awake.
No, it’s not very “warm and fuzzy” is it? The first Sunday of Advent greets us not with an escape from our anxiety, but by meeting us right in the thick of it, and, giving us the words that polite society wishes we would just keep to ourselves. These texts give voice to the prayers we have prayed, and to the feeling we already know, that “the world is not okay, and the suffering and pain are not over yet.”
But honestly, I think this recognition of pain and suffering is ultimately better than an escape, because it lets us deal with what is all too real to us. It brings us to recognize that we are still in desperate need of a savior. Our world is still so full of pain and brokenness and sadness and “not yet,” and no number of Christmas carols or lighted trees are going to fill that void like our God coming down from heaven can do. And that is why we plead, with Isaiah: we want God to tear open the heavens and come down right now. We want God to “stir up [his] power and come.” We want our God to come and be with us, and know us, and truly to see us, even and especially when we suffer.
I came across a compelling definition of suffering this week, from Father Richard Rohr, who is known especially for his work with contemplative practices. He defines suffering as the feeling of “not being in control.” No wonder this year has been so hard, then, huh?! 2020 has been a planner’s nightmare. Every day we plan for today, maybe for a week or two in advance. Sure, there are tentative plans further out, but what if schools close again? What if the vaccines aren’t distributed as quickly or efficiently as we pray they will be? What if there isn’t a peaceful transfer of power in January? What if a civil war breaks out? There are so many unknowns and “what-ifs,” and the thought of making plans too often seems laughable. We feel we have no control, and we suffer for it.
I remember those first weeks of the pandemic, how I fought this inability to plan anything, and grieved the plans I had made that would no longer come about. I remember those internal wrestling matches and frustrations, all too well. But as the pandemic has dragged on, I have noticed something: I’ve started to get more comfortable with not having plans. Not comfortable, mind you, but more comfortable. I have found myself increasingly willing and able to let go of my need for control over what happens, and to take it all one day at a time, placing it all in God’s able hands. In other words: I have learned how it feels to trust God.
Or, to use Jesus’ words in the Gospel reading, I have started to really understand what it means to “keep awake” – to understand that command not just with my head, but with my heart. Constant vigilance, constant prayer, constant reminders to myself to let go of my need to control, and to place it all in God’s hands, trusting that whatever happens, God’s love never changes. That God is faithful.
In this way, our suffering, as Rohr defines it, is lessened. Not because we are more in control, and not because the cause of the suffering has gone away. Rather, suffering lessens because that lack of control no longer has the power to suck the life and hope out of us. Is it still frustrating? You bet! Which is why I’m also grateful for passages like we have today, that offer this from-the-gut shout at God. The suffering and pain are real, and we can’t ignore that. But then after that shout, a nice deep, cleansing breath… and finally, a prayer offering all that anxiety into God’s control. All of this goes a long way toward getting our heads above the tumultuous waves of our struggles.
This sort of struggle, and the act of attentive waiting for God to act, is nothing new to God’s people. This is precisely the context to which Paul is writing in his letter to the Corinthians that we heard this morning, and he offers some pointers on how to manage the interminable time we are currently experiencing. The first century Church believed that Christ would return any minute. Talk about the need for constant vigilance! And also, the constant disappointment and frustration. It’s like being 41 weeks pregnant and waking up each morning to realize, “Darn, still pregnant” – except it goes on for generations! Paul encourages the early Christians that during this time of waiting, they should strive to be spiritually prepared for the great day of transformation that Jesus would usher in. In other words, rather than digging in our heels and looking back to what was, we ought to be constantly open to the possibility of change and growth. But lest this constant vigilance get discouraging and exhausting (as we all know it can!), Paul reminds them that God has enriched them with every gift they need to endure this time. “In every way you have been enriched in him, in speech and knowledge of every kind,” he says, “so that you are not lacking in any spiritual gift as you wait for the revealing of our Lord Jesus Christ.” You have what you need. He assures them that God will strengthen them during this time of waiting and watching. And then comes perhaps the best news of all: “God is faithful.” No matter how long we have to wait, we will never be left alone, nor do we have to rely upon our own power to get through this. God is faithful to the end.
These are difficult weeks, my friends. What is often a season of joy and nostalgia is covered by a shroud of anxiety and disappointment this year. It is okay to be honest about that pain and suffering, like Isaiah. It is okay to pray for it to end, like the Psalmist. But as we lift up what weighs on our hearts, let us also remember God’s promises: that God can hold all of our pain and ultimately does have control, that God has provided us with all that we need while we wait, that God will strengthen us to the end no matter how long it takes, and above all, that God is faithful and trustworthy.
Let us pray… Faithful God, some days we long for your presence, and all we can do is raise a cry of desperation to you. Thank you for receiving it. Help us to trust you, to relinquish our own need for control into your able hands, and to keep watch each and every day for the ways that you are already coming down into our lives. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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