Month: December 2012

Christmas

Year C – RCL – 25 December 2012

John Edward Miller, Rector

In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see– I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!”

When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.” So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger. When they saw this, they made known what had been told them about this child; and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them. But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.  

                                                                                                                                 – Luke 2:1-20

The Collect

O God, you make us glad by the yearly festival of the birth of your only Son Jesus Christ: Grant that we, who joyfully receive him as our Redeemer, may with sure confidence behold him when he comes to be our Judge; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

“Therefore the LORD himself will give you a sign. Behold, a young woman shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.”

                                                                                                                                   Isaiah 7:14

“And this shall be a sign for you: you will find the babe wrapped in swaddling cloths lying in a manger.”

                                                                                                                                Luke 2:12

 Our children’s Christmas Eve service is always a major event in our parish life, and it is always beautiful. It draws an Easter-size congregation composed of parents, grandparents, and hundreds of others who simply want to see children celebrate the Nativity of Jesus in their inimitable way. The complications attending this event are legion. Herding in and managing a cast of mini angels, shepherds, sheep, wise men, and the holy family is quite a feat. But I tell the anxious adult directors not to worry, because the service is a guaranteed success. No matter what happens, the story gets told in ways that we cherish. Children get rambunctious; some are cranky, bored, or so geared up about Christmas that they can’t wait for the gift giving to commence. That can lead to disagreements (like two little angels who duked it out in front of their horrified parents), and of course, there are crying children who just want to go home. Still it is wonderful to behold, and it warms our heart year after year.

My favorite image every year is that of Mary and Joseph peering into the rough-cut wooden manger to see a doll all bundled up atop a bed of straw. Their young faces reflect light and shed light; it is a moment of pure goodness. Young Mary and Joseph help us imagine the original couple, standing in a stable, awestruck by the baby they had been given. The little infant, whom they would name Jesus, was not only precious, he was (and is) God’s miraculous message of love. Through him all mankind receives the greatest good news imaginable: God loves us so completely that he gives himself to us that we might fully live. The word portrait of the Messiah’s birth delivers the message in a language that all of us can understand. That is why we have gathered at St. Mary’s on this Christmas Day.

Heirlooms tell stories too. One that I treasure is a belt buckle that comes from the Miller side of my family. My grandfather Edward was the son of a first generation immigrant from Germany. His parents spoke German even as they became citizens of the United States. However, like most Richmonders, their children blended right into the southern culture, speaking English as their basic tongue. Still, there were vestiges of their German legacy, such as food choices, preference for dark beer, ethnic friendships, and artifacts from the old country. The buckle was one of those items. It was part of an army uniform – likely from the Franco-Prussian War era. I don’t know which of my ancestors served in the Kaiser’s military, but one certainly did, because the buckle one of several pieces of military paraphernalia. On the buckle is an imperial crown surrounded by a motto confidently proclaiming, “Gott mit uns.”

“God with us” is the English translation. That was quite a statement of status and privilege. Whoever wore that buckle must have thought that his cause was just. And I’ll bet he felt a little safer than the troops opposing him. Perhaps he sensed an edge in battle, such as Constantine’s army, which had the Chi-Rho monogram (short for “Christ”) emblazoned on their shields. To claim, as the Kaiser’s emblem did, that “God [is] with us” is to impute righteousness to the war aims, as well as a standing of entitlement to the combatants.

They were not the only soldiers or rulers that made this claim. Some were quick to flex their military muscles after a triumph, making common cause with the Almighty. Others, however, lost their campaigns and suffered the defeat of their supposed divine right. And that inevitably begged the question, “If we failed to achieve victory, in what sense was God with us?”

Many who have lost loved ones to tragedy ask that very question. So do those whose life is being depleted by illness, or whose livelihood has vanished, or whose relationships have broken apart, or whose control over their circumstances has ebbed away.

The implication of “with us” is advantage. But what if there is no advantage? What if there is failure and loss? Does that mean that God is absent? Not there? Irrelevant? The ramifications of loss can be devastating. Outcomes depend on our basic assumptions. If we expect that God’s presence with us is leverage, that it entitles us to special favors, then losing can be catastrophic. On the other hand, the story we celebrate at Christmas shows us another way (a subtler way) of seeing God’s presence, and understanding God’s power, in our life.

Early Christians viewed Jesus as the fulfillment of prophecy – especially Isaiah’s proclamation of Immanuel, the sign that “God [is] with us.” That is Matthew’s interpretation;[1] Luke’s view of the nativity of Jesus culminates in the appearance of the Angel Gabriel, who together with the heavenly host, exclaimed, “Be not afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of a great joy which will come to all the people; for to unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find a babe wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.”[2] In Luke the sign is a reinterpretation of Immanuel. God with us takes three-dimensional, animate form – a baby swaddled with bands of cloth lying in a manger.

God chose to invest himself in the being of a helpless infant, wrapped up tightly so that he would feel secure instead of anxious, snug instead of chilled in the night air of Judea. This momentous choice – God’s choice to become human – strikes us as counterintuitive. His form is at loggerheads with notions of heroic strength. He arrives as a newborn who has enjoyed the safety and warmth of his mother’s womb, only to be expelled by birth into an alien world that provides no protection against the elements. Besides his mother’s beating heart, swaddling offers the baby Jesus his only comfort.

Is it odd that God would need comforting? Well, no, it isn’t, because this baby is God’s physical presence, God’s sensing, feeling, thinking, emoting, vulnerable presence in a world that does not support infants automatically. In this world, human babies need help, and lots of it, to survive. I think that the Christ child’s powerlessness, his weakness, is the sign. Unlike the way the world measures power, God reveals his power by pouring himself out, by emptying himself, and taking the form of the lowly, rather than the proud. This is preposterous to propose, but it is the deepest of all truths.

But what is even more remarkable is the repository of this Immanuel child. He is lying in a manger, said the angel to those awestruck shepherds. A manger is not a cradle, or an isolette, or a fancy crib. It is a feeding trough – a rough-hewn, straw-filled, saliva-soaked container of feed. A manger, from the French, manger, meaning “to eat,” is in the opinion of one of our preschoolers, “just yucky.” It’s not something you’d order from Laura Ashley or Babies Are Us.

What’s up with all of this earthiness? All this lowliness? All this lack of advantage, privilege, status, or power to bend reality to one’s will?

Maybe that’s the point. God’s way of being “with us” is like that – earthy, involved, simple, humble, unpretentious, willing and able to get his hands dirty in the soil of life. Jesus’ genealogy can be traced through King David’s royal lineage, but he was not to the manor born. He was both the Son of God and the son of man. He is extraordinary, yet ordinary. As my late teacher Donald Dawe used to say, “God is most like himself when he becomes one of us.” Jesus shares with us a common life – one that is human, not extraterrestrial. The circumstances of his birth make it clear that his godliness is gracefully down to earth.

What could be earthier, and less high and mighty, than beginning life in a manger? Mary’s child, born in lowly estate, is nevertheless the Savior of us all. Christ the Lord is not distant, but close at hand; he is not removed from us, but is within our reach. In him God is with us bodily; in him God is literally in touch with us. He experiences our feelings – the sorrows as well as the joys, the disappointments as well as the satisfactions. That is amazingly good news, because the one who sees life through our eyes is the one who can redeem life as we live it.

The one to a manger born came among us not to be served, but to serve. Jesus, our Lord, is no ordinary king, but he is just the one we need – a king who would stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his people, and whose sovereign rule would be the law of love. His ministry will be marked with humility rather than hubris, compassion rather than coercion, giving rather than receiving. Mary, I believe, saw God’s presence in him, and pondered in her heart the godliness, as well as the cost, of the way he live his magnificent life.  

God’s manger-cradled Messiah would grow to his full stature and beckon us to set aside our agenda and to follow him. Those who would become his disciples joined the ministry of the humble servant, doing deeds of kindness for the sake of love. Together with him, they have done the work of redemption, and have touched us with God’s presence.

One of his disciples died recently. She was quiet, hard working, and extraordinarily kin, and she left this world more benevolent for her presence. Her acts of service were unheralded and seemingly small, but in reality they were remarkably effective. At her memorial service, her two daughters followed their mother’s example and gave a highly organized, yet soft-spoken account of a life dedicated to love of God and love of neighbor – every neighbor.

For example, this modest mother expressed her maternal care not only to her own children but also to everyone she met. During hot months of summer, she made sure that when the garbage man made his weekly visit to her house, he would find a cool bottle of water and a refreshing snack resting on the lid of the garbage can. She couldn’t bear the idea that he might suffer through that heat and humidity unappreciated.

On a lengthy drive on a turnpike interrupted by tollbooths, this same thoughtful soul handed to every toll attendant a bag containing candy hearts and other confections. She thought that if the turnpike employees had to work on Valentine’s Day, someone should treat them with a kind remembrance.

Seeking and serving Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself, as well as respecting the dignity of every human being, is a manger-based ministry. It is born in Bethlehem, nurtured in Nazareth, and fulfilled in Jerusalem. We who gather around Christ’s manger are his family. He is our brother, our dearest companion. Because we share his life, we too can grow in grace until we become more and more like him in our thoughts, our words, and our deeds. Christmas reminds us of that, and it gives us an annual re-start on the journey. Christ’s life sheds light on our path. And even if we are only capable of taking baby steps, they are still steps. We would do well to trust him, and to take them. He will be there to catch us when we fall.

May the joy, peace, hope, and love of Christmas be with you this day, and forever more.

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, let us open our hearts to receive him, our Lord Immanuel. Amen.

A Sermon for the Third Sunday in Advent

Year C – December 16, 2012

David H. Knight, Priest Associate

In the Name of God who is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Among today’s readings we hear the exhortation of John the Baptist when he says to the crowds, “Bear fruits worthy of repentance.”  And in The First Song of Isaiah, we recited the words of this profound expression of hope,” Surely it is God who saves me; I will trust in him and not be afraid.”  This Third Sunday of Advent calls us to be a people of repentance, that is, a people willing to turn to God and change our ways when it becomes necessary to do so. It is a Sunday that once again calls us to the renewal of the vows made at our baptism. This Sunday in Advent calls us once again to be a people of hope, that is, to live in the expectation that God is with us and will sustain us in the midst of all that life brings.

Jeannie and I have many happy memories of our two years  in Dallas while I served as one of 8 priests on the staff of Saint Michael and All Angels Church and Jeannie taught at Good Shepherd Episcopal School. It was for us an adventure to say the very least. The people in Texas are wonderful. Now you have to understand, the Republic of Texas is like no other place on the planet. Just as our first Thanksgiving festivities were over, for example, we began to notice that on the streets near where we lived, there were these McMansions adorned with Christmas lights draped on everything on the property that didn’t move—house, trees, bushes, walls—whatever. We were told there could be as many as 20 to 30 thousand light bulbs adorning each property, installed by companies that would come through and decorate your yard for two dollars a bulb. Now multiply that by 20-30 K and you get the drift. But it was a bargain, actually, because the company would come through and remove them as soon as Christmas had passed at no charge. As a dear friend of mine quipped, “It was in with the new, out with the new.” In an effort to decorate our own rented house in the spirit of the season and in keeping with the Dallas tradition, I went to the local Home Depot and bought two of those white wire reindeer, you know, the ones with lights that blink and the heads that move up and down and the tails go back and forth. They could be ours for $18 a copy. It must be said that the people there are incredibly gracious and generous. They would, in Dallas fashion go all out to light their yards in a spectacular way yet they would turn around and give most generously to the mission and ministry of the parish. The outreach ministry of Saint Michael in the city of Dallas and in the world beyond simply boggled my mind. The parish’s footprint in the city and beyond was large and generous. It’s just that—well—it was Dallas. And so our first Advent there in Texas was like no other we had ever experienced.

 And then, on the Third Sunday of Advent, into all the season’s tinsel and brightness with all its holiday lights and all the cheer in the world outside, came this guy, John the Baptist. The solemnity of our Advent worship was pierced by his words of exhortation recorded Luke’s Gospel that we have heard once again this morning.  Now, perhaps our holiday decorations and festivities here are a bit more restrained than the ones we experienced in the “Big D”, yet the same message comes to us each year in Advent in the midst of our holiday festivities whatever they may be. John the Baptist said to the crowds, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance.  Do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor’; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham.”  Strong words. He then spoke to them of what they should do. God would place upon them uncompromising demands for fairness and justice. Generosity and unselfishness would be the fruits of such repentance. For John the Baptist, repentance would have less to do with how fervently one prays than with how one handles one’s wealth, how one exercises stewardship, and how one works for justice. What John the Baptist gave the crowd and what he gives to us is a guide to follow as we continue on our path in life. That guide comes to us as good news as we prepare for the arrival of the Humble Servant who would come to live among us. It is best for us, he says, to let the divine ax cut off our greed, our self indulgent ways, our hypocrisy and such, and throw it all into the unquenchable fire of God’s judgment. It is best for us repent and to turn to God who will lead us back in the right course when that needs to happen.

 The Gospel for this Sunday is about expectation, about what is to come, about something new and powerfully wonderful. It is also about hope. You and I cannot survive without hope. All the readings this morning point us in the direction of hope.  The prophet Zephaniah  speaks to a people in fear and says, “Do not fear, O Zion: do not let your hands grow weak. The LORD your God, is in your midst…”  In the First Song of Isaiah, we sing, “Surely it is God who saves me; I will trust in him and not be afraid.  And in that brief epistle reading from Philippians we hear the promise, “The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made before God.”  These weeks of Advent remind you and me to be watchful and to believe that God is near. These weeks of Advent call us to repentance, that is, to be aware of and responsive to those parts of our lives where a change of heart is necessary in order for us to prepare us more fully for the coming of our Lord, born as an infant in Bethlehem.  

 Today we have just celebrated the baptism of Katherine Marguerite Jacob. While we don’t always associate Baptism with Advent worship, our Gospel reading today makes a strong connection to Holy Baptism. As John the Baptist exhorts those who came to him about what it means to be baptized, we are reminded of our own vows we made or were made for us at our baptism.  In this light, I recall something that Bishop Ted Gulick, our assistant bishop,  said at a gathering recently when, in his remarks he said this about discipleship; “It’s not about who we are, it’s about whose we are.” Not about who we are, but about whose we are. You recall that John the Baptist said to the crowds, “Do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor…’” It’s not our lineage, he said, that matters, it’s not who we think we are because of our lineage that matters, rather it’s whose we are, to whom we belong that matters. That is what discipleship is about. At our baptism, the priest makes the sign of the cross on our forehead and says using the name of the newly baptized, “(Katherine Marguerite), you are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.” We belong to Christ who calls us into discipleship, a discipleship that becomes a life-long journey.

 This Advent season once again bids each of us to ask ourselves, “Do I bear the mark of Christ as one who belongs to him? Am I living as one of his faithful disciples? Do I strive for justice and peace among all people even when to do so involves risk, and do I respect the dignity of every human being as we have promised to do in the Baptismal Covenant? If so then, how does that shape what you and I say and do each day in our interactions with one another? If not, and when that is not the case, will we repent, that is, will you and I make a U-turn and return to the Lord? John the Baptist’s exhortations this Advent, as they break into the brightness of our holiday festivities, provide us with insight as to how to be faithful disciples, and to be faithful with a sense of urgency and expectation.

 And in this season of Advent, among the bright lights of this festive holiday time of anticipation, there is yet something else that clamors to be spoken. We hear in the letter to the Philippians today these words of comfort: “And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts, and your minds in Christ Jesus.”  For many, the holidays are bitter-sweet at best. For those of you who have lost loved ones whether recently or after some time has passed, the brightness of the holidays can stand in sharp contrast to the reality that you experience as you think about and miss your loved ones. May you discover that in the lap of God’s love, strength will come as you walk with your grief.

 And for all of us, as we have witnessed in these past days once again the unspeakable violence against children, there is the tendency to ask, “Is there any hope?”  “Will gun violence in this nation ever cease?” It is easy to lose hope, yet the prophet Isaiah speaks to us reminding us that God’s understanding is unsearchable. In the lap of God’s love, those dear souls in that community of Sandy Hookand all of us who grieve with them will ultimately find strength as we walk with grief, disbelief, and yes with outrage, as once again we have witnessed the unthinkable in our land.  Let us hope that some day—some day—we, as a nation, will muster the resolve to address this matter of gun violence so that one day your children and my children, and all children will be safe. It is this kind of justice about which John the Baptist speaks. Dare we ignore his warning any longer?  How long, O Lord, how long?

 This Advent season, wherever you or I may be in our journey, God’s peace is in our midst. It is in the lap of God’s love that we become able to bear fruits worthy of repentance, that we are able to reaffirm the vows we made at our baptism, and that we can have hope once again in the midst of all that life brings. And so,

 Our hope and expectation. O Jesus now appear;
arise, thy Sun so longed for, above this darkened sphere!
With hearts and hands uplifted, we plead O Lord to see
the day of earth’s redemption and ever be with thee! Amen.

A Sermon for the 1st Sunday of Advent

Year A –2 December 2012

John Edward Miller, Rector

Jesus said, “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”

Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.

“Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.”

          – Luke 21:25-36

The Collect

Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

 What did you expect?

 I’ve been on the receiving end of that question more than a few times. And I think it’s safe to say that, when anyone hears a question like that, it’s clearly a statement by an observer who isn’t in the mood to show compassion. Usually, it comes right after someone does something stupid. For example, let’s say that I go skateboarding without helmet and pads. If I fall and get a concussion, and then look for sympathy from a safety-conscious onlooker, I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that kind of response. Or if you are short on time and park in a handicap spot without authorization, and your car gets towed, then sooner or later someone will be happy to teach you an object lesson by saying, “What did you expect?”

That’s the way this question is ordinarily used. In everyday speech it’s often introduced by the word, “well?” The question is not designed to solicit information. It’s a rhetorical device; its purpose is to persuade, and perhaps even to drive home a punitive point. Moreover, its tone is more than a little condescending to the victim. Most of the time, it hurts to hear it, because it strikes us as rubbing it in.

But I also think that this a great Advent question. In the Christian calendar Advent is the season of expectancy. For four weeks the Church, the Body of Christ, is pregnant with hope. We mark the season with special color (Sarum blue here at St. Mary’s, while others follow the color purple), and with increased evergreen in the sanctuary, and in wreathes festooning our doorways, and especially with the Advent wreath, with its four candles set in a circle and the central candle waiting to be lighted on Christmas Eve. The anticipation of the season is palpable, even if it becomes an anxiety producer in procrastinating shoppers.

That’s because most of us regard Advent as the Christmas countdown, like those colorful calendars with the little doors to open every day until December 25. And, of course, that is one focus of Advent. We anticipate and we expect the birth of Jesus, God’s Messiah. Joy flavors this season. Hope shows on the faces of children and adults. It is a time for family, for hospitality, for good cheer, and for giving. Advent helps us keep our eye on the ball, looking for the rebirth of wonder.

But it also challenges us to awaken, and stay alert, instead of resting on the holly and ivy that will soon be decking the halls of festive holiday homes. It invites us to remain vigilant, and expectant of something more than Christmas. This jars us a bit when the lessons and hymns for Advent Sunday speak about the Second Coming of Christ rather than the first. Most of us want to hear carols about shepherds and angels and wise men instead of the bombast and power of “Lo, he comes with clouds, descending.” That frightful image raises our eyebrows and causes us to shiver, when all we want to do is to enjoy some Christmas cheer and get our shopping done. Nevertheless, this is just as much a part of the Advent season as the manger and the Bethlehem babe. The Second Coming of Christ is the co-equal and second focus of Advent. It too asks us to be expectant – not for the birth of the Messiah, but for his return. Today we consider this other seasonal emphasis, and regard it as the completion of what the Nativity of Jesus started. The one who said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life,” is pointing into the future – our future – and saying, “Follow me.” The infant Jesus is pointing ahead toward a goal, an end to which his ministry leads.

However, what shall we say about Christ’s Second Coming? What does it possibly mean?

Biblical literalists not only take this concept seriously, they take every feature of it word-for-word. They get all fired up about the end of history, about Armageddon, and the final victory of God over the powers of sin and death. They look forward to that day when Jesus, the Son of Man, will come zooming down out of the clouds like the air cavalry attack in Francis Ford Coppola’s “Apocalypse Now” – with ranks of helicopters flying in out of the sun, firing rockets and Gatling guns while blaring the sound of Wagner’s “Ride of the Walkyries.” On that day, say they, the bad guys will be flushed out and destroyed, while the good will is transported to a heavenly reward of eternal bliss. The apocalyptic imagery is graphic and hair-raising, and these folk treat it as realistic to the nth degree. There is no room for flexibility, interpretation, or poetic depth. For them, these details are not metaphors; they are to be taken exactly as they are written. 

Within the New Testament there is evidence that both Jesus and Paul expected the Second Coming within the lifetime of the first generation of Christians. But if this was a literal expectation, then it proved to be a misplaced hope. Nothing of that sort happened then, or has happened during the last 2000 years. So, were Jesus and Paul wrong?

No, they weren’t. The Christian faith would not have survived if the hope for the Second Coming were not well founded. That aspiration is based on Jesus himself – his life, death, and resurrection. He is the revelation of the end, the goal of all life. What he presents to the world is a clear, tangible, understandable disclosure what God is like and what God intends for his beloved creatures. His revelation points beyond himself, and beyond time and space. And he says that he will come again to complete the drama.

I take his promise seriously; I believe that what he says is true. The question, “What do you expect?” is the pivotal issue. Our experience of cloud-riding messiahs and final battles between angels and demons is limited. These images may have been relevant to first-century minds, but they simply don’t compute in this era.

The rational, 21^st-century perspective needs translation of ancient apocalyptic symbols. Otherwise, their purpose gets obscured in our time. We are awash in a constant stream of wars and rumors of wars. Our culture is so wired that we can barely escape hearing about terrorist bombings, religious unrest, fiscal cliffs, and debt crises, to name but a few of the current challenges. Against this background the biblical picture-language describing the end time loses steam. But the need for resolution remains.   

Psychiatrist Scott Peck opened his best seller, The Road Less Traveled, by stating, “life is difficult.” In saying so, he was paraphrasing the first of the four noble truths of Buddhism. The statement is a wise recognition of the suffering that permeates life, and that rears its head in ways that surprise and deplete us. Life’s difficulties sometimes lead us to a dark place where we may wonder or ask, “Is there a point to all of this?”

Shakespeare’s Macbeth reaches that shadowy place as the tragedy unfolds. After he learns of his wife’s death, Macbeth pauses to consider what he has done and what has befallen him in return. In a chilling soliloquy he expresses his indifference to life and to death saying,  

 Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
to the last syllable of recorded time;
and all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
that struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
and then is heard no more. It is a tale
told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.

                                    – Act 5, Scene 5, vv. 19-28

 That’s a pretty powerful expression of hopelessness. Macbeth doesn’t expect that there is anything good to come. He is one of  T.S. Eliot’s “hollow men,” the “stuffed men” whose “dried voices, when [they] whisper together are quiet and meaningless as wind in dry grass . . .”  Macbeth’s apathy about living and dying is an extreme view. It lies at the far end of the spectrum whose other end is joy. He cannot see, nor does he look for, a point to life. In short, he has no Advent eyes.

When you consider your life – your prospects amid the political and economic challenges presented by today’s world, or by fears that our political system is locked in an immovable impasse, or by your personal struggles with seemingly intractable issues – what do you expect?

Do you see life as absurd (random, chaotic) or as meaningful? Do you see it as a matter of perpetual perishing or as a context of the eternal? Is life merely existence, an endless duration whose only gauge is the marking of time, or does life have an aim, an end?

Albert Camus, the French existentialist, looked at life and called it meaningless. His hero was Sisyphus, the hapless man condemned by the gods for hubris. His inescapable punishment was to roll a huge stone to the top of a steep hill, only to see it roll back down the slope every time. Camus saw Sisyphus’ existence as absurd. His only glimmer of hope was invested in his defiance of absurdity; his determination led him to keeping on rolling his stone, despite the inevitable consequence.

  Alfred North Whitehead, the English process philosopher, recognized that all sorts and conditions of living things perpetually perish. Whitehead was the son of an Anglican clergyman, so he may have had in mind the words of one of Isaac Watt’s hymns, namely, “Time, like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away;
they fly forgotten, as a dream dies at the opening day.” That point of view sounds rather grim, but Watts did not leave us without hope. The hymn’s point, its aim, is to affirm eternal meaning in context of human mortality. This he states in the opening stanza, singing, “Our God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come, our shelter from the stormy blast, and our eternal home.” Whitehead may have remembered that affirmation, because his philosophy of life was not without hope. God, he said, is “the great companion, the fellow-sufferer who understands.” 

I have a friend who knows that, and wants to believe it. But he has been so thoroughly beaten down by life’s difficulties that he once remarked, “I feel as though I’m only marking time now.” These words came from a man who braved jungle warfare in Vietnam, loves to camp and to fish, and who has enjoyed the companionship of many friends. But after a series of hardships and mistakes, he slipped into a trough of despair. He could see no future in that dark place. Fortunately, his remembrance of saintly souls who have stood by him, and cared for him, and graced him with acceptance has helped him to keep looking for love to prevail.

These points of view are as understandable as they are real. Life is beautiful and rich, but it can be very difficult. Those walks through the valley of the shadow of death are lonely; it takes more power than we can muster to realize that we are not in fact alone, and that we are being led through the darkness by a gracious guide who knows the way home. That power is present, and it beckons; our challenge is to expect that God is with us and for us, even when the evidence to the contrary is overwhelming.

Consider for a moment the ancient Jews. Has there ever been a people more beaten down by life? Crushed by evil empires, enslaved, ghettoed, dispersed, exiled, vilified, persecuted, and systematically annihilated, the Jewish people have had every reason to view life as Macbeth did – “a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” And yet, they maintained hope through it all – hope for an exodus from oppression, hope for the Promised Land and a godly heritage, hope that the kingdom of David would last forever, and the hope that the long-expected Messiah would surely come.

When Jesus stepped onto the Judean stage, though, the people were disappointed. He was not what they expected of a messianic savior. He appeared weak, powerless, and foolish. At the conclusion of his public ministry, the people roundly rejected him, and handed him over to their Roman oppressors to be crucified.

Jesus died, but he didn’t go away. His work continued beyond his execution. Death could not eradicate him. People who paid attention and embraced his spirit found their life transformed.

John’s Gospel summarizes the impact of Jesus on those who trust him. In a one-verse nugget, John 3:16, the gospel writer said practically all that needs to be said: “God so loved the world, that he gave his only-begotten Son, to the end that all that believe in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” Martin Luther called this verse the “Gospel in miniature;” the Book of Common Prayer calls it a “comfortable word.” That means it gives us strength, because that is the origin of the word “comfort.” In that sense, what is comforting about that little verse is manifold. It tells us that God loves us so completely that he gave us what is most precious to him. The birth of Jesus, his Son, happened. He came among us, lived with us, taught us, healed us, forgave us, and was willing to die for us so that we may live. The prayer book’s translation says, “to the end that all that believe in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” That word, “end,” is encouraging; it is enough to engender hope in me when I’m feeling alone and afraid. It says that love is the point of it all. Giving, sharing, showing mercy, offering hospitality for Christ’s sake is the end. Every time someone is redeemed, every time someone is persuaded to step out of the darkness and into the light, every time someone is pulled out of the cycle of meaninglessness, and given an opportunity to serve and to empower others, Christ is present. He comes again.   

I hope that you’ll join me in staying focused this Advent, and remain alert. Something’s coming, something good. It may be some one, or some thing, but that which is coming will be exceedingly good, because it is God’s gift. And you can trust what he gives because he is faithful and true, always.

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen.