Watching, Waiting, Working

This year, we might feel like these laments that usually begin Advent finally make sense. It’s been a rough year. It’s good for us to lament, to speak honestly about what hurts. God can take it! And then we are called to think about, and be mindful of, what in our lives might be in our way of seeing Christ who is both already with us, and yet to come.

Isaiah 64:1-9

64 O that you would tear open the heavens and come down,
    so that the mountains would quake at your presence—
² as when fire kindles brushwood
    and the fire causes water to boil—
to make your name known to your adversaries,
    so that the nations might tremble at your presence!
³ When you did awesome deeds that we did not expect,
    you came down, the mountains quaked at your presence.
⁴ From ages past no one has heard,
    no ear has perceived,
no eye has seen any God besides you,
    who works for those who wait for him.
⁵ You meet those who gladly do right,
    those who remember you in your ways.
But you were angry, and we sinned;
    because you hid yourself we transgressed.
⁶ We have all become like one who is unclean,
    and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth.
We all fade like a leaf,
    and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away.
⁷ There is no one who calls on your name,
    or attempts to take hold of you;
for you have hidden your face from us,
    and have delivered^[c] us into the hand of our iniquity.
⁸ Yet, O Lord, you are our Father;
    we are the clay, and you are our potter;
    we are all the work of your hand.
⁹ Do not be exceedingly angry, O Lord,
    and do not remember iniquity forever.
    Now consider, we are all your people.

 

Mark 13:24-37

²⁴ “But in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened,
    and the moon will not give its light,
²⁵ and the stars will be falling from heaven,
    and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.

²⁶ Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory. ²⁷ Then he will send out the angels, and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.

²⁸ “From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near. ²⁹ So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that he is near, at the very gates. ³⁰ Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place. ³¹ Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.

³² “But about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. ³³ Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come. ³⁴ It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch. ³⁵ Therefore, keep awake—for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, ³⁶ or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly. ³⁷ And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.”

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Dear people of God: grace to you and peace this day, from God through Christ for whom we wait and in whom we already have salvation. Amen.

O, that you would tear apart the heavens and come down!

How much have we felt this exact anguish over the last nine months?  How many times have we said similar words, either under our breath or right straight out loud?

And how many times over those same nine months have we tried valiantly to stay strong?  How many times have we told ourselves or our friends, “hang in there”?

If you’re like me, these two narratives have gone in endless concentric circles.  One asking God to just make it stop.  The other, repeating the mantras of a people joined against a common foe.

And all of this in an election year, just to keep it interesting.

So maybe, like me, at this point you’re just TIRED.

Maybe summoning the energy for the weeks leading up to Christmas just makes your joints hurt.  Nothing whatsoever to do with the colder weather.

Maybe you’ve suffered a loss of some kind this year, and the whole idea of Advent and Christmas is – well, let’s just say you’re not there yet.

Dear people, you have company in our lessons today.

And the thing is, at the beginning of every Advent the lessons are like this.  Really downer stuff.  No “fluffy bunnies” as my friend Suzie would say.

The lessons we read each year in the first couple of weeks of Advent sound like a mash-up of every disaster movie ever made, with steroids added for effect.

Which in other years, is usually SO WEIRD.

But this year?  This year, in the midst of all the pain and difficulty, we might finally begin to get a glimpse of understanding of why Advent always seems to begin with lament.

The Isaiah lesson pleads with God to come down in a powerful-God, lightning-bolt-throwing God kind of way.  The Israelites remember the stories of God coming down during the Exodus; God can do that again, right?  Frogs, floods, parting of the Red Sea – that’s all within God’s wheelhouse!

What isn’t entirely clear is WHY they want God to come down.  We get a hint when the writer tries to project their own guilt onto God – “you left us alone, that’s why we messed up!”  Something has gone terribly wrong.

And so Isaiah delivers this message of seeming desperation to the Almighty:  HELP.  Come down and save us!  As theologian Walter Brueggemann puts it, “Israel’s deep trust in Yahweh is matched by Yahweh’s deep obligation to Israel.”

There is a relationship here – as there is in every place where God shows up.

“We are your people,” cry the Israelites, “we belong to you and you cannot disown us. We have no other source of help.”  The prayer for God’s coming, which began in bombast, ends on a note of needful, pathos-filled intimacy. 

Dear people, it is into this kind of pain and exhaustion that God does break in – although not in the way folks expected, not at all.

When God does come to earth again, it is as a baby.  The most helpless of creatures; the least among all of first-century Palestine.

A baby.  Houseless, marginalized, and eventually hunted and fleeing as a refugee.

God’s way of being God in our world is generally not what we expect. 

Where do we see God today?  In the halls of power, or in the unsung work of teachers reinventing their lesson plans with each new wave of COVID directives?

In the fortress tower, or in the work of National Guard troops trying to relieve healthcare workers on the front lines of the pandemic?

In this story from Mark’s gospel, Jesus is trying to impress on the disciples the need to keep awake, to stay alert – not just to be on their guard, but primarily so they don’t miss the things that would slip by completely unnoticed.

In our context, that might be the friend who is trying to hide the fear in their voice when you are chatting.  It might be the neighbor who has been laid off in this pandemic and isn’t sure how they’re going to put food on the table.  It might be the small business that you frequent sometimes – and that you might be able to give some business in this lean time.

There is SO MUCH out there that is competing for our attention.  Jesus is reminding the disciples that he is to be found in the things you don’t typically notice, in the places you don’t usually check – and to be alert so that the distractions don’t get in the way.

Advent has been called a “little Lent” and I think there is some value to that.  In order to properly welcome Jesus, doesn’t it make sense that we would do a little cleaning up around our hearts as well as around our homes?

What gets in the way of our seeing Christ – who of course has already come, is already among us?

The disciples just don’t get it yet; they don’t understand who Jesus really is.  (Spoiler alert: this is a predominant theme throughout Mark’s gospel.)  They can’t see Jesus for who he is.  Could WE be looking for Jesus in ways that distract us from actually seeing Jesus?

The Advent carol “People Look East” sings, “make your house fair as you are able, trim the hearth and set the table….Love, the guest is on the way.”

The heart, of course, is the house we make into a home for Jesus.

But I suspect Jesus isn’t interested in being a judge for the best-decorated house contest.

To trim the hearth.  Think about heat, and think about greenery.  Maybe that means helping someone with getting wood put in for the winter, or making a donation to the food bank so they can get fresh produce for folks.  The need for accessing food banks has skyrocketed in the pandemic; the poverty rate in the US has gone way up as well.

By setting the table, that could mean a donation of unused dishes or tableware to the Holly House (the domestic violence shelter) to help someone trying to make a new life for themselves after a bad situation.  It could also mean setting aside part of my food budget each week to support one of our local restaurants in this difficult time.

Ultimately, it is broadening the room our hearts make for the way of Jesus, lived out in the world. Part of that broadening, and part of the way of Jesus, is making room for care of ourselves.

Because even in the midst of these ways of turning our hearts, our heads still worry.  When?  When will Jesus return?  When will this pandemic end?  When will I be able to get a vaccine?

We don’t have answers to any of those questions.  If anything, this time of pandemic has been a time to re-learn patience.  It certainly stands in contrast to our world of instant everything.

We enter the Advent season with a three-fold call—to watch, to wait, to work. Watching can be hard. Waiting can cause disillusionment. Work can be difficult.

As Jesus’ disciples, we are called to actively wait, with anticipation.  It’s not passive waiting, but active waiting.  Because while we may have no idea where or when, we absolutely know that it is Jesus who is to come.  Jesus, who transcends time and place to be with us and walk with us here, and now, through one another.

Even in a year like this one, that is a sign of hope.  May that hope be yours this Advent-tide.

Amen.