Scripture: Isaiah 40:1-5; II Peter 3:8-15a
Imagine with me. Imagine yourself on a sea-going ship centuries ago, before the
invention of the steam engine, radio and the telegraph, when your only momentum came from
the wind and the tides. Imagine yourself crossing the Atlantic, or the Pacific for that
matter, out far enough that nothing but ocean and sky are visible no matter which way you
look.
Each night, the crew takes readings from the stars and tries to ascertain both where
you are and what direction to head. Each day you follow the sun across the sky and try to
stay roughly on course. You try to keep the crew peaceful, you hope you have enough
provisions, you pray for good weather, or at least challenges no greater than you and your
ship can manage. You know land is out there, somewhere ahead, but you don't know how long
it will take to reach it. You trust that if you keep faithfully tracking your course each
day and following the plan laid out for you, one day salvation will appear on the distant
horizon, in the shape of land.
It's a little like Advent: actively waiting, and trusting in what we cannot yet see:
the second coming of the Lord, whose timing we never know.
Imagine yourself a writer getting up each morning and spending the appointed number of
hours at your computer or, maybe still, a typewriter. Some days the words and images and
characters come, and some days you just stare at the wall, or the computer screen, or out
the window. But each day, you show up faithfully so the conscious and the unconscious can
do their work, following rabbit trails, playing with words and images, trusting that in
this daily faithfulness, a story, an article, a sermon will take shape. You never know
exactly when it will all come together, but you keep trusting the process, doing your part
in spite of the periodic blocks, praying for insight and courage, until one day salvation
appears in the shape of a completed document, a gift in your hands.
It's a little like Advent: actively waiting and doing our part while we trust that
Christ will come again and save the world, but whose timing we never know.
Imagine yourself in a season of your life in which you are engaged in deep personal
growth. Maybe your life's been turned upside down and you're trying to discover how to go
forward and who you are now. Maybe a loved one has become ill or died, and you're doing
the hard, relentless work of grief. Maybe you've acknowledged an addiction beyond your
control and turned to a higher power for help. Maybe you've begun an endeavor you've long
dreamed about, and now that it's happened, you're trying to adjust to its ramifications in
your life. Or maybe you've been dealt an illness, a stunning surprise, or a terrible
trauma that shakes your world and requires intensive internal work as you seek a new self
and God in this new reality, and you're trying to cope, day-by-day.
In each season of personal growth and inward work, you never know when solid ground
will appear again on the horizon and you'll know in your soul, the gift of a new creation.
But you keep working the steps. You stay with the process. You keep returning to the hard
work of therapy. You keep sharing with friends, praying and studying and struggling. You
keep stripping away the layers of denial so you can deal with the problems and see the
learning. You keep leaning into the growth, and you keep putting one foot in front of the
other, trusting that God is seeing you through and will bring you safely to the other
side. You keep doing your part, unsure when salvation will come in the shape of morning
light, but trusting in its assurance, nonetheless.
It's a little like Advent: we do our part, faithfully praying, struggling, hoping as we
wait for the birth of the Lord who has already come and is already with us in our new
becoming.
Imagine yourself a parent, giving birth to children who declare their independence by
arriving on their timeline, not yours, and then grow up into persons separate from
yourself, little by little, in fits and starts, needing parenting skills in you far beyond
any you've received along the way. You see their birth as a sign of hope in the world:
that in this generation there will be peace and they will not have to go to war, that our
world and our country will be more just, more compassionate, more fully what God created
it to be.
Day-by-day you do your best, you struggle and pray, battle and comfort, and then try
again the next day. You trust them to the care of God; you trust that a secure shoreline
will someday appear on their horizon, on which they can stand and claim their natural
giftedness, a shore from which they can give thanks to God for the glory of a sunrise and
a life to live.
You don't know when it will happen, how your 6-year-old, or 12-year-old, or 19-year-old
or 30-year-old will turn out. But you trust that if you keep doing your part, faithfully,
as best you can, you'll be a good enough parent - not perfect, but good enough - and your
children will turn out all right. You just don't know when that will be.
It's a little like Advent: we live as faithfully as we can, we strive to be, not
perfect disciples, but good enough disciples of Jesus Christ, as we prepare our hearts for
a rebirth of the Christ child, and a rebirth of our faith, we know not when.
Imagine yourself part of a church, maybe like this one. You have a vision of a
community, a family, that loves each other, cares for each other in need, rejoices in each
other's joy, knows each other's names, challenges you to grow in faith and righteousness,
and comforts you endlessly when you need someone to carry you or walk beside you. You have
a vision of a church that reaches out to people in need of housing and food, employment
and justice before the law, that reaches out to neighborhoods captured by violence and
schools longing for excellence. You have a vision of a church that while taking care of
its own, is not focused on survival, but on bringing the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the good
news of Jesus Christ to as many people as possible beyond its doors, in ways that will
change their lives and bring them hope and love and fullness of life they didn't know
before.
Day by day, week after week, you plan and lead worship, you greet one another on the
patio and in the pew, you sing in the choir and work on committees and boards, you teach
and attend classes and small groups. You keep your eye on the ball, step-by-step, moving
towards a church full of life and full of the Spirit, but not here yet. You look around
and see only sky and sea, and one another, even though you long to see solid land on the
horizon.
So you keep faithfully caring for the crew, faithfully seeking God's guidance,
faithfully trusting in the long process of new life and in the God who has called this
church into being. You know you're making progress toward the new heaven and new earth
we've been promised, but you don't know when it will come, and we don't know exactly what
it will look like.
It's a little like Advent: we live as faithfully as we can, we pray and give, we study
and seek, we look within and reach out, trusting that the Christ who has already come
will, in God's own time, renew the earth and come again.
Imagine that you are the people of ancient Israel, held captive by a foreign power,
longing to return home, oppressed and hungry, restricted and hopeless. But somewhere deep
inside, you keep trying to be faithful to God. Somewhere deep inside, hope rears its head
from time to time and you remember God's promise of love and peace, of economic justice
and safety, a future where God's presence surrounds you and carries you and leads you
forth into new lands each and each day.
You're still in the wilderness of exile, and you don't know when such a day will come,
but you trust that if you keep working the program, faithfully putting one foot in front
of the other, remaining faithful as best you can day by day, then someday, that glorious
future will come, and God's salvation will be for you.
It's a little like Advent: you long for and prepare for God to come among your people
but you hear only the sighing of the wind and don't know when it will change to angel
voices.
Come, Lord Jesus. Come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel.
Imagine that you are the people of the ancient church, waiting for Jesus' return in
glory, uncertain of your future in a hostile world. All around you are reasons to give up,
to set aside your Christian faith and practice in a hostile world, all around you are
reasons to give up your Christian uniqueness in a world that does not understand
simplicity and compassion, that does not understand giving the shirt off your back and
inviting the unwanted to your table, that does not understand a worship setting where
gardeners and C.E.O.'s share hymnals, where immigrants and bluebloods pass communion trays
to one another, where children give up their seats to the elderly, and all God's people
say "Amen" together.
It's a little like Advent: where all God's children in Jesus Christ, from north and
south and east and west, old and young, and all conditions of life join each other on the
road to Bethlehem where we will kneel side-by-side and thank God for the birth of Christ
in the world and in our own life.
Hear, then, these words of the Prophet Isaiah for you:
"Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry
to her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid. A voice cries out: "In
the wilderness prepare the way of the LORD, make straight in the desert a highway for our
God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven
ground shall become level and the rough places a plain."
You are going home. The path shall be made straight, and all the rough places smoothed
out. You are headed home. Christ has already been born and shall be born anew. For it is
Advent: the future is already here in part, and shall one day, we know not when, be fully
known..
"With the Lord, one day is like a thousand years," says Peter, "and a
thousand years are like one day. What sort of persons ought you to be leading lives of
holiness and godliness, waiting for and hastening the coming of the day of God? While you
are waiting for these things, strive to be found by the Lord at peace, without spot or
blemish; and regard the patience of our Lord as salvation."
Last weekend I had the opportunity to visit the Norton Simon and Getty Museums again. I
remembered how, many years ago, I used to move quickly through an art museum, scanning to
see which paintings I liked and which I didn't. Now I linger in front of one painting and
then another, discovering some I had overlooked before but which now capture my attention.
There never seems to be enough time as I alternate between stepping back to see the
overall effect of the painting, then moving close and looking carefully at the brush
strokes and the mix of colors in each small section, the layers of paint when they are
thicker and when almost translucent. As I see the attention to detail and the overall
vision of the artist, my appreciation deepens of the thought, the discipline, the skill
and gift and art and faithful persistence in laying on stroke after brush stroke towards a
final purpose that would become visible only from a distance when the painting was
complete.
This, too, is like Advent waiting: giving our attention to the details of faithful
living, creating stroke by stroke, what we are called to be and do.
Come, Lord Jesus, we know not when. We only know that we need you as much as the world
has always needed you. Come, Lord Jesus, for we work and wait and watch faithfully,
day-by-day until your final vision is complete. Come, Lord Jesus, and set our feet on
heaven's shore, in this life and in the life to come. Amen.
