|
|
Texts: Isaiah 64:1-9; Mark 13:24-37
The story is told among the Hasidim, the Hasidic Jews,
about a rabbi who crossed the village square every morning
on his way to the synagogue to pray.
One morning, a big, gruff Russian Cossack soldier, who happened to be in a foul mood,
stopped him and said, “Hey, rabbi, where are you going?”
The rabbi simply said, “I don’t know.”
This infuriated the soldier.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Every morning for twenty-five years
you have crossed the village square and gone to the synagogue to pray.
Don’t fool with me. Why are you telling me today you don’t know?”
And with that, he grabbed the old rabbi by the coat and dragged him off to jail.
Just as the Cossack was about to push him into the cell,
the rabbi turned to him, and said softly, “You see, I didn’t know.”
This year, perhaps more than ever, we have learned to expect the unexpected.
We might have thought we knew where we were going,
and what was likely to happen next, but in fact, we didn’t know
We’ve experienced great, historic upheavals in the past few months
– some frightening and disturbing, some perhaps hopeful and encouraging.
But all quite unexpected.
Who but a few pessimistic economic gurus were predicting a world-wide
economic crash of the scope and proportions we’re going through right now?
And if someone had offered to bet you a million dollars five years ago
that in 2008 America would elect a black president
with the middle name “Hussein” how many of you would have taken the bet?
Perhaps we’re learning to expect the unexpected
– whether in hope and optimism or in fear and trembling.
We’re getting a little of both!
And that, I think, is the message of the first Sunday of Advent,
and perhaps of the whole Advent season.
We are simultaneously waiting for the coming of Christ at Christmas
as we anticipate the Messiah’s birth,
and waiting for the final coming, that “Day of the Lord”
that will be both a day of judgment and day of deliverance.
And in both readings today, Jesus and Isaiah warn us: expect the unexpected
The prophets longed for the coming of that Day of the Lord,
because the judgment of the people and the nations
would also be the salvation of the people and the nations:
“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down,
so that the mountains would quake at your presence
--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!”
“Lord, we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand”
The prophets recognized that there was so much in their world
that was broken, and needed fixing:
The greed of the powerful, the exploitation of the poor,
the war-like “might makes right” attitude of the stronger nations over the weak,
the lack of compassion for the dispossessed
the shortage of faithful servants and seekers of God
– it all sounds kind of familiar, doesn’t it?
The prophets believed that the people’s unfaithfulness had earned God’s wrath.
But they also believed that God was angry, not because this was a cruel or vengeful God,
but because God loved the people;
God had a covenant relationship with the people, and the people had broken the covenant.
This was a lovers’ quarrel between God and the people, and if God were to come down,
it wouldn’t be to punish, but to make things right again,
to restore the covenant, and restore right relationship.
That is why the prophet could beg God to “tear open the heavens and come down”,
even if it would make the mountains quake and the forests blaze with flame.
God was the great potter, and our human hearts needed to be restored
and reshaped and remolded to the original design of the potter’s plan.
This Advent, it is easy to see and acknowledge that there is much that is broken
in our society and in our world, much that is in need of repair and redemption,
much that needs to be restored and reshaped and remolded
to the original design of the potter’s plan.
And for some of us, that may not just be the economic collapse, or the scandal of corruption,
or the violence of terrorism, or the cruelty of poverty.
There may be things much closer to home that feel broken, in need of repair and redemption.
Perhaps the heartache of a broken family or a broken relationship, or the anguish
of a son or daughter distant or estranged, or at risk, or a friendship turned to bitterness.
Or again, the brokenness from which we yearn for deliverance
might even be a force within our own hearts:
a paralyzing fear that blocks us from acting, or living, or loving well
-- a fear of loss, or a fear of failure; a fear of pain, or a fear of death.
Or it might be a sense of being trapped in some cycle of behavior
that continues to threaten our health, or damage those we love.
Then too, we need a savior to reach into our world, and take hold of our hearts,
and reshape our lives for us. We need a messiah.
But, here is the good news:
It is only through our brokenness that we can find repair and redemption.
C. S. Lewis once said, "The Christian faith is a thing of unspeakable joy.
But it does not begin with joy, but rather with despair.
And it is no good trying to reach the joy without first going through the despair."
It is only through our brokenness that the Messiah can come into our world.
Jean Vanier, founder of L’Arche, put it this way
“Our brokenness is the wound through which the full power of God
can penetrate our being and transfigure us in God.
“Loneliness is not something from which we must flee,
but the place from where we can cry out to God,
where God will find us and we can find God.
Yes, through our wounds the power of God can penetrate us
and become like rivers of living water to irrigate the arid earth within us.
Thus we may irrigate the arid earth of others, so that hope and love are reborn.”
The poet Leonard Cohen says it succinctly:
“Ring the bells that still can ring.
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything.
That's how the light gets in.”
“There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.”
There is a fountain, a light, a healing power at the threshold of our world,
at the threshold of our hearts, who is willing and able to save us.
No matter how bleak the daily news,
no matter how fearful the prospects of tomorrow,
there is a Gracious power waiting “at the very gates”
waiting to come into our lives, willing to guard us
and guide us and gather us and shape us in the days to come.
And it is the Advent season that points to that presence and that coming,
and encourages us to invite the Christ to come into our world,
and expect the Christ to come into our lives;
in power and in judgment, yes – but also in healing and forgiveness.
“O that you would tear open the heavens, and rush down to save us!”
O Come, O Come, Emmanuel!
|
|
