First Sunday of Advent – Year C – Bill Harkins
The Gospel: Luke 21:25-36
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.”
In the name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this first Sunday of Advent, as we begin a new year in our liturgical calendar. Advent is a time of expectant waiting and preparation for the coming of Christ from two different, but related perspectives. It offers those gathered as the Body of Christ an opportunity to share in the anticipation of the nativity of Jesus, and to be alert for his Second Coming, as we hear in the lovely and prophetic words of Jeremiah, “The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah. In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land.” And Luke, in today’s Gospel, writes of “the Son of man coming in a cloud with power and great glory.” Today’s readings seem to take on heightened meaning given the uncertainty of our times, including our own season of transition between rectors at Holy Family. These changes and uncertainties can add to our anxiety about the present, and our wish to know what the future will bring. How can we be prepared? What are the signs of today that carry the seeds of what will be tomorrow? And perhaps at the heart of this for many of us, what is, and is not, under our control? Businesses, governments, and educational institutions, including the institution where I taught for many years—hire consultants to predict what is to come, and offer advice as to how best prepare for it. This desire to predict the future is what prompts horoscopes and palm readers, and I recently saw an ad for a brand of watch which read “connected to eternity.” I am not a Greek Scholar, but I do know that chronos—or sequential, chronological time—and Kairos—which is the appointed time in the purpose of God, or sacred time under the aspect of eternity—are not the same kind of time. It is the former with which we are often confronted in this busy, sometimes hectic season, and the latter with which our liturgical season of Advent is primarily concerned. Sometimes in our cultural, chronological anxiety we begin Christmas right after Halloween, and we confuse Advent with Christmas, which is, in a way, like skipping from Palm Sunday to Easter without observing Holy Week. We forget to wait, and pay attention, and we risk losing the only moment we have, which is this moment, here and now.
Amid our anxieties about the future, there’s probably no Christian teaching that’s caused more excitement and confusion than what is often called the “second coming of Christ.” And sometimes I wonder if we confuse that Advent with the beginning of Advent we observe today. They are related, but not the same. In one of my favorite Peanuts comic strips, Linus and Lucy are standing at the window looking out at the rain falling. Lucy says to Linus, “Boy, look at it rain…What if it floods the whole earth?” Linus, the resident biblical scholar for the Peanuts gang, answers, “It will never do that…in the ninth chapter of Genesis, God promised Noah that would never happen again, and the sign of the promise is the rainbow.” With a smile on her face, Lucy replies, “Linus, you’ve taken a great load off my mind.” To which Linus responds, “Sound theology has a way of doing that.” Yes, “sound theology,” the teachings of scripture and the Church, rightly understood, can help ease our anxieties about this doctrine. And sound theology can also be the occasion for us to think about hope, and waiting, and especially about what we can and cannot control. We need not worry unnecessarily, but we do have some responsibility to watch, and wait, and hope, and pray; and, to work for justice and peace. That’s the Advent we observe today.
Scholars call passages like this one from Luke 21 apocalyptic literature. It was a style of writing that used vivid, striking images to convey a message of hope and faith. It was used especially during times when God’s people were being severely oppressed. The Book of Revelation, for example, was written at a time around the end of the first century after Christ, when Christians were being persecuted by Rome. John, who wrote it, was on the isle of Patmos, exiled there by the Romans because he refused to deny his faith. So he writes to his suffering churches, using words and images he understood and his readers would understand but that the enemy would not understand. It’s a kind of code, really, and it can be confusing to us in our context. But when you put it all together, it’s saying, “No matter how bad it looks, don’t give up the faith. Hang in there, for God is in control. So watch and work and pray. God is with us now, is both here, now, and is coming again.” That’s Kairos time. That’s Advent time.
It’s so human to get confused in our anxiety about what the future will bring. In fact, many claim to know too much about it. I believe this is one of the problems at the heart of some religious views that claim to know, and have more control over those events, than is possible. It’s not a bit confusing or mysterious to some, when and how things will end, which impacts choices made here, and now. And yet of that day and hour, Jesus said in Mark 13, the angels do not know, nor the Son. And when he was asked in Acts 1 when the end times would take place, he tells them, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. Here’s what you are to know. You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come.” I don’t know about you, but I am wary of religious claims in our context that promise more than Jesus himself said he knew. The other mistake the church makes is in treating this teaching too lightly or dismissing it altogether. Some see it as an outdated doctrine that causes more trouble and confusion than it’s worth…suggesting that it’s no longer relevant for us. Both of these extremes make for questionable theology. As is often the case, there is a wonderfully inclusive both/and at work here, and it can assist in our observance of Advent.
The Grammy-award-winning singer Mary Chapin Carpenter recently suffered a health crisis. As she reported on NPR, she was admitted to the emergency room after experiencing chest pain. A scan revealed blood clots in her lungs. People told her that she should feel lucky because a pulmonary embolism can be fatal. But instead of feeling lucky, she fell into depression. In her essay, “The Learning Curve of Gratitude,” on NPR’s Weekend Edition, Carpenter said,
“Everything I had been looking forward to came to a screeching halt. I had to cancel my upcoming tour. I had to let my musicians and crewmembers go….I felt I had let everyone down. Burt there was nothing to do but get out of the hospital, go home and get well. I tried hard to see my unexpected time off as a gift, but I would open a novel and couldn’t concentrate. I would turn on the radio, and shut it off. Familiar clouds gathered above my head, and I couldn’t make them go away with a pill or a movie or a walk. This unexpected time was becoming a curse, filling me with anxiety, fear and self-loathing. All the ingredients of the darkness that is depression.”
For those of us who are members of Christ’s body in this place, dear one’s, the season of Advent affords the opportunity to begin again, with hope, the next leg of our journey as believers in faith, to see even challenging times as in their own way, a new beginning. It is an opportunity to think about the future by paying attention to what is here, and now, in this moment. In his Gospel, Luke writes of a time when nations are perplexed at the signs in nature and its awe-inspiring power, when men “faint with fear and with foreboding of what is coming on the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.” The reading ends with the sprouting of the fig leaf as a sign of an upcoming summer—the season of growth and life that springs forth and is in stark contrast to the dead of winter. These days as I run in the woods, now almost winter-like in appearance, I am reminded that the tender green buds of the leaves that will adorn these same trees in spring are already there, just visible to the eye upon closer inspection. Indeed, it is the gentle push of these new leaves to come that causes the autumn leaves to let go.
Gratitude can participate in healing—the Latin root of which is salve—from which we get our word “salvation.” Gratitude can “save us” from ourselves and heal those things that keep us separated from each other, and from God. As it happened, Mary Chapin Carpenter found healing and restoration through gratitude, at the grocery store check-out line:
One morning, the young man who rang up my groceries and asked me if I wanted paper or plastic, also told me to enjoy the rest of my day. I looked at him, and knew he meant it. It stopped me in my tracks. I went out and sat in my car and cried. What I want, more than ever, is to appreciate that I have this day, and tomorrow and hopefully the days beyond that. I am experiencing the learning curve of gratitude. I don’t want to say “have a nice day” like a robot. I don’t want to get mad at the elderly driver in front of me. I don’t want to go crazy when my internet access is messed up. I don’t want to be jealous of someone else’s success. You could say that this litany of sins indicates that I don’t want to be human. The learning curve of gratitude, however, is showing me exactly how human I am.
What a lovely phrase this is—the learning curve of gratitude—and how deeply it resonates with the Good News. This earthly sojourn, dear friends in Christ, takes place between illness and health, Samaria and Galilee, Egypt and that land over Jordan, in campground. It is lived between those places where we live most of our lives and where we are all at home. We are, all of us, as the song says, sovereign wayfarers, “just going over Jordan, just going over home.” We suffer most from those things that would separate us from others, from ourselves, and from God. Yet Christ bids us draw near, makes us whole, and restores us to life with others and to God in reconciling us to all. Gratitude is one means by which this happens. Meister Eckhart, desert father and mystic, once said that “If the only prayer we ever pray is one of gratitude that will be enough.” Learning curves of gratitude indeed.
The prevailing cultural narrative in this season makes it so hard for us to wait, and we are so often in a hurry. I am among those who struggle with this. In Spanish, the verb esperar means both “to hope” and “to wait.” A gardener friend tells me that the Esperanza plant flourishes in harsh conditions, and blooms in gold and orange—hopeful waiting indeed. Waiting in silence and creating sacred space for hope to grow, and compassion to blossom, is a practice we can cultivate. As the old song goes, building upon a passage we heard in Luke’s Gospel just a few weeks ago, “Got my hand on the Gospel plow, won’t take nothing for my journey now. Keep your eyes on the prize…hold on, hold on.” Already and not yet, present moment, and the prize to come, Advent now, and Advent not yet arrived.… find a vantage point, somewhere in the midst of things, from which you might watch, and wait, and prepare. Advent, like its cousin Lent, is a time for reflection, preparation, and waiting—in anticipation of Emmanuel, God with us, here, now, already, always, alleluia. Amen.