What Are You Waiting For? NewLife
Jeremiah 33:14-16; Luke 21:25-36 - 1st Sunday of Advent, November 28, 2021
Pastor Ritva H Williams
The Advent reflection series “What Are You Waiting For?” begins by asking “How alive are you in this moment?” The author, Pastor John van de Laar, imagines two possible responses.We are “vibrantly” alive, as in we feel good, energized, inspired, and happy; or we are sad, tired, or depressed, and hence, lifeless. How would you answer that question: how alive are you in this moment?
My response is neither vibrantly alive or lifeless, but rather painfully alive. A few days ago Facebook kindly reminded me of our last visit with my father at Thanksgiving 2015, during which we became painfully aware he was rapidly approaching the end of his life. That led to a sad Advent. This is year is the first Advent since our son James died, and second the year in a row that our family will not spend Christmas together. I am alive, but painfully filled with, and repeatedly overwhelmed, by grief.
As Pastor van de Laar writes, “no one gets through this human experience without tragedy, suffering, and failure.” My pain stems in large part from what we might call the “normal” suffering of human life — the death of loved ones, illness, and so forth. Our family’s decision not to gather for Christmas this year is the outcome of “unusual” circumstances combined with the “extraordinary” tragedy of a global pandemic.
I know that am not alone in feeling painfully alive this season. Many of you are struggling with similar experiences. The global pandemic has added to our normal suffering through increasing isolation, insecurity, financial stress, threats to human health, misinformation, polarization and more. COVID-19 and its Delta variant have multiplied by millions the number of households that have empty chairs at their holiday tables. Not to mention the suffering brought on by natural disasters, climate change, and the human tragedies resulting from conflict and violence.
It is the first Sunday of Advent, that season we are supposed to prepare our hearts in joyful anticipation of Christ’s birth (1). Professor Anne Stewart prefers to describe Advent this way:
Advent is a season for feeling out of kilter. It is a period of waiting in the darkness. It is a season in which we are caught between joyful expectation and the harsh realities of the present condition … this season puts the church at odds with contemporary American culture, in which the holiday season consists of bright lights and celebrations and packages tied with neat bows. There is no room for darkness and little patience for prayerful expectation when holiday carols blare from every speaker … [She concludes:] Yet ironically, this experience of being out of sync with our surroundings may attune us more deeply to the nature of Advent." (2)
Our gospel lesson for this first Sunday of Advent certainly seems out of sync with the holiday spirit. It is the last week of Jesus’ earthly life. He is hanging out in the Jerusalem Temple observing the crowds going about their Passover preparations. His disciples, meanwhile are playing tourist and admiring the Temple. Now for these first century Jews the temple was not just an architectural wonder. It was not just the center of their religious life. It was a symbol of their national identity. When the disciples praised the Temple they were expressing their hopes for the end of Roman occupation and a return to the great glory days of the past when Judea was free and prosperous. Jesus ruthlessly dashes their hopes by predicting the forthcoming destruction of the Temple. Clinging to symbols of a glorious past will not save them or bring new life to their community.
Instead Jesus challenges them, and us, to be alert and prepared for inevitable struggles. In the face of tragedy and suffering, Jesus warns us to be on guard so that our hearts are not not weighed down with partying and drunkenness, or the worries of this life. As Pastor van de Laar writes:
Jesus knew that when faced with turmoil we have a tendency to numb ourselves out or get overwhelmed by our anxiety. We are very good at avoiding or denying our pain and losing ourselves in mind-altering substances or momentary experiences of pleasure. Or we allow our fear … to overwhelm us … [so] that we become paralyzed. But neither of these strategies lead us to life. And, since we all suffer, we all need to learn more effective ways to live fully even in the midst of our pain. But Jesus didn’t just warn us against letting our hearts be dulled. He offered some simple … effective ways to stay engaged with life even in the face of death (p. 8).
First, stay alert … intentionally observe, listen, and take note of what is happening. We have to understand our reality in order to know how to respond well.
Second, stand up and look for the presence of God and the beauty, truth, and goodness that continues to be revealed around us even in the midst of upheaval. Specifically, Jesus tells us to look to the fig tree and to all trees: as soon as leaves sprout we know that summer is already near. Jesus urges us to ground our hope in the endlessly repeating cycles of life, death, and new life manifested first in creation and then in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. As Martin Luther reminds us, “Our Lord has written the promise of resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf of springtime.”
It is no accident that Advent coincides with the long, dark nights of early winter. Advent is a season of waiting in the darkness for God to do a new thing — again.
For the darkness is holy. It is filled with the glory of God. Just as in the beginning when the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, the Spirit of God hovered and danced over the waters. In the darkness, light was first conceived in God’s heart and then brought forth by God’s word. The light did not extinguish the darkness, just as the darkness does not overwhelm the light. Light and darkness co-exist, each with its own purpose in God’s creation. Each is necessary for the unfolding of God’s dream.
So when the darkness surrounds us and the winds blow wild around us, let light and warmth gather us, let our hearts and minds be alert and calm. Trusting in the light of Christ who is always with us, guiding our footsteps through the darkness. Let us rest in the holy, pregnant darkness of Advent, remembering …
It is only in the dark that we can see the stars. Sometimes, it is only when we cannot see that we begin to hear. In darkness we have the freedom not to be seen, to withdraw, to encounter God and our deepest selves. In darkness we are encouraged to cease our outward explorations, to turn our hearts to home and to those with whom we share it. The darkness dissolves our bright illusions of independence, and reminds us to reach out and feel God’s hand in ours.
In darkness, the world rests. As the trees have shed their leaves, we can shed what we no longer need to carry. And as the rotting leaves nourish the germinating seeds, we can allow God to nourish our dreams and our longings until they are ready to come to life. (3)
May you find a blessing in the darkness, a welcome in the shadows, and the Love that knows your name. (4)
Amen.
Michal Beth Dinkler, “Commentary on Luke 21:26-36,” December 2, 2018, workingpreacher.org.
Anne Stewart, “Commentary on Jeremiah 33:14-16,” November 29, 2015, workingpreacher.org.
Adapted from A Service for Samhain from Iona Abbey, written Sep-Oct 2008, published 2009, posted to deviantart.com by RaevenIrata; and from “A Blessing for Traveling in the Dark
Adapted from “A Blessing for Traveling in the Dark” by Jan Richardson, “Circle of Grace — A Book of Blessings for the Seasons,” 2015, p. 31.
