At first listen, our gospel today is not exactly a ray of sunshine. There are a lot of words in there that can cause anxiety to rise in our throats: storms and fainting and earthquakes and traps are all mentioned.
In my childhood, I was repeatedly exposed to preachers and Bible teachers who used scripture like we hear today to try to scare their listeners into accepting Jesus as their Savior out of fear. They ignored the fact that scholars point out that Jesus was describing events that were happening (Roman occupation brought war all over the known world) and that was going to happen upon Jesus’s crucifixion. But what if we heard Jesus acknowledging the pain in this world, and his solidarity with us, beside us, right in the midst of it?
God knows it is hard right now. And then let’s repeat it again: God KNOWS that it is hard right now, but as that saying goes, God is good—all the time. And all the time, God is good.
It does not hurt to have this reminder, as we continue on in pandemic mode if we are wise and loving, as we reject the forces of nihilism that try to overwhelm us and proclaim that their own freedom justifies others’ fear, suffering, and even potential dying.
The Rt. Rev. Steven Charleston is a citizen and elder of the Choctaw Nation, a retired Episcopal bishop of Alaska, former dean of Episcopal Divinity School. Today he published this meditation:
If you are walking a long and difficult path, you may find it worn smooth by the number of others who have had to pass this way before. Sorrow and struggle are not new to our human family. The number of people who have carried heavy loads along this same road are too many to count. You can see the evidence of their passing. You can also feel their presence for in their heavy burden they made their imprint upon the earth. You can feel them watching over you, encouraging you to take the next step. The silent witnesses to our pain walk beside us, the ancestors of our journey lead us to the high ground of hope. Keep going. (Facebook, November 28, 2021) (1)
Here Bishop Charleston hits upon that same thing spoken of reassuringly by St. Paul in Romans 5, and echoed by the authors of the epistles of James (James 1:2-4) and Peter (Peter 1:3-9):
Therefore, since we have been made righteous through his faithfulness,[a] we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. 2 We have access by faith into this grace in which we stand through him, and we boast in the hope of God’s glory. 3 But not only that! We even take pride in our problems, because we know that trouble produces endurance, 4 endurance produces character, and character produces hope. 5 This hope doesn’t put us to shame, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us. (Romans 5:1-5, CEB)
Hope is what brings us here.
Today we light the Candle of Hope on the Advent Wreath. It’s no coincidence we then hear our readings today. Unlike what we have been led to believe, they are reading meant to encourage. Meant to remind us that we are never alone.
We live in a time of lengthening shadows. This is LITERALLY true as we approach the winter solstice on December 21 this year. We try to deal with forbearance those around us who, like children, have just decided that they are done with this pandemic and think we can return to the way things were before—just because they say so. But that is not the language of hope. That is the language of denial. And the language of denial is ultimately a language of defeat, because it gives up rather than embraces life in all of its struggles as well as all of its glory. The language of hope acknowledges the now and looks toward the future. The language of hope acknowledges the depth of the anxiety and the suffering around us—and yet clings to the knowledge that there is something better we can grasp onto RIGHT NOW.
Yes, today we light the Candle of Hope on the Advent Wreath and we need to remember that and name it—not just that, but to will ourselves into embracing hope even as the shadows lengthen and obscure the clear sight of the way forward for so many of us through the gathering darkness. I am reminded of a poem by Mary Oliver called “Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness:”
Every year we have been
witness to it: how the
world descends
into a rich mash, in order that
it may resume.
And therefore
who would cry out
to the petals on the ground
to stay,
knowing, as we must,
how the vivacity of what was is married
to the vitality of what will be?
I don’t say
it’s easy, but
what else will do
if the love one claims to have for the world
be true?
So let us go on
though the sun be swinging east,
and the ponds be cold and black,
and the sweets of the year be doomed. (2)
“The vivacity of what was is married to the vitality of what will be.” And as Christians, we are called to proclaim—especially now—that the love we claim to have for the world, whether in spring or in winter, is true, and eternal, and holds us far more steadfastly than our own faltering attempts, at times.
In the face of all that tells us "NO! There is no hope!" the love we proclaim he's us to instead insist on "Yes" to persevering and proclaiming grace and hope in a world in shadow.
This is the season of Advent. It is a season of anticipation in response to a world that tells us that five seconds to load a web page is an eternity. It is a season of waiting with expectation and zen-like calm in a world that has people literally climbing over each other at the bargain bin, either online or in person, as the marketers scream, “Grab it now before it’s gone!”
Advent is a season of honesty and embracing of the truth that nothing lasts forever. And yet have you ever noticed that the way you change the inflections in those three words can make all the difference? When I was a child, I would mourn the day when all the leaves shook free from the trees this time of year, when the trees would stand barren and the colors on the forest floor would briefly radiate in oranges, reds, and yellows, only to subside to muddy, crackling brown a week later. “Nothing lasts forever,” my dad, who was also no fan of winter, would say, mournfully.
And yet, in spring, I would watch in wonder as the first buds would spring forth into purple coronas and then tiny green hearts all over the Redbuds in Redbud Valley where our Camp Fire group would hike in the spring. Those trees would shake off the constrictions of winter with abandon, and we would watch winter recede right before our eyes, promising a long and luxuriant spring and then the glories of summer. “Ha!” those trees would say to winter. “NOTHING lasts forever!”
And so those who are resilient, or who want to be, repeat THAT phrase to themselves when they encounter pain, or heartbreak, or loss. Nothing lasts forever—not even this struggle, or this loss, or this tribulation.
Advent is a season of plucking one fallen leaf from the millions of fallen leaves in your back yard and admiring its architecture and fading glorious color rather than being compelled to rake, mulch and dispose of the accumulated mass of fallen foliage. As we look at that leaf, with just a bit of memory we can see the green energy gatherer it once was, and the bud it was before that. If we let it flutter to the ground, we can even see it as eventually joining to the soils to lay down its body in the service of next spring’s new buds, of whom the tree is already dreaming.
In our gospel, Jesus reminds us to do three things: to wait, to look, and to notice. These are always good things to do—but especially when se are not sure we know the way forward. Stop and wait. Look around and really be present in the moment, whether it’s one of joy or pain. Observe closely, and see what is going on all around you and within you at this present moment.
So listen again to what Jesus is telling us. Wait for the signs—of the world descending to sleep so that it can turn again toward light and life. Look at the fig tree and see those promises of spring’s leaves even when the branches are at their barest. Notice that just like the promise of those new leaves are already there, my truth-- and I --am also with you always. And it is there that we can make the turn from being lost to finding a path, from being frozen in place to finding a way forward.
Those three things lead to a fourth. Wait, look, and notice. Then, once you are centered, dare to imagine. Dare to hear the promise of presence and love that walks alongside you even when things are grim, and cold, and dark. It is that same promise that Jeremiah proclaimed in the midst of exile thousands of years ago. It is that same promise that Jesus makes to us yesterday, today, and tomorrow: Nothing lasts forever—nothing but God’s love and devotion to us, wherever we are, in exile or in homecoming, but above all in embracing the beautiful now. Beautiful because God is with us—Emmanuel.
Advent is a season of plucking one fallen leaf from the millions of fallen leaves in your back yard and admiring its architecture and fading glorious color rather than being compelled to rake, mulch and dispose of the accumulated mass of fallen foliage. As we look at that leaf, with just a bit of memory we can see the green energy gatherer it once was, and the bud it was before that. If we let it flutter to the ground, we can even see it as eventually joining to the soils to lay down its body in the service of next spring’s new buds, of whom the tree is already dreaming.
In our gospel, Jesus reminds us to do three things: to wait, to look, and to notice. These are always good things to do—but especially when se are not sure we know the way forward. Stop and wait. Look around and really be present in the moment, whether it’s one of joy or pain. Observe closely, and see what is going on all around you and within you at this present moment.
So listen again to what Jesus is telling us. Wait for the signs—of the world descending to sleep so that it can turn again toward light and life. Look at the fig tree and see those promises of spring’s leaves even when the branches are at their barest. Notice that just like the promise of those new leaves are already there, my truth-- and I --am also with you always. And it is there that we can make the turn from being lost to finding a path, from being frozen in place to finding a way forward.
Those three things lead to a fourth. Wait, look, and notice. Then, once you are centered, dare to imagine. Dare to hear the promise of presence and love that walks alongside you even when things are grim, and cold, and dark. It is that same promise that Jeremiah proclaimed in the midst of exile thousands of years ago. It is that same promise that Jesus makes to us yesterday, today, and tomorrow: Nothing lasts forever—nothing but God’s love and devotion to us, wherever we are, in exile or in homecoming, but above all in embracing the beautiful now. Beautiful because God is with us—Emmanuel.
Preached online and in person at the 10:30 am Holy Eucharist at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville.
Readings:
Links/Sources:
1) The Rt. Rev. Steven Charleston, post from Facebook, November 28, 2021.
2) Mary Oliver, "Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness," from A Thousand Mornings, 2012
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