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3rd Sunday of Advent B
December 11, 2005
Delivered by Reverend Sandy Stayner
Isaiah 65:17-25
I Thessalonians 5:16-28
John 1:6-8, 19-28
This weekend, David went to Trinity Episcopal Church in Hartford lead a Men’s Advent retreat. Before he left he took Kenzie our dog for her usual early morning walk. It was still dark when they left, and the early morning air was frigid. But David couldn’t help but marvel at the beautiful shades of pink in the sky as the sun began to rise. Suddenly he heard a faint sound of rumbling in the air which just got louder and louder until the very ground beneath his feet seemed to shake. Kenzie whose hearing is of course much more sensitive than ours started hopping around like a thoroughbred pony. Not only could she hear the rumbling sound in the air, but she could feel it through her toes, and she was terrified. David was by her side trying to calm her down, when out of the dark came an enormous plow truck driving at breakneck speed with lights full on and sparks flying in all directions as the metal plough hit the hard ground. The driver probably didn’t even notice them as he was so intent on ridding the roads of the troublesome snow that had covered the entire state the day before. By now David was kneeling beside Kenzie who was frantically trying to get away from the monster that was bearing down upon them, threatening to engulf them with the cloud of dirty white snow that was left in its wake. The plow sped by, and David and Kenzie were left standing in the early morning light, watching.
The signs of God’s coming are all around us. That’s what the scriptures tell us week after week during this season of Advent. We live in a world that is impregnated with the love of God. Sunrise on a cold wintry morning as the glorious colors flood the skies, remind us of the miraculous creation of a wondrous world – a bottle of water and a tent and a blanket from a truck for a family in a village completely destroyed by the earthquake in Pakistan assure us that God is still reaching out, this time through the compassion of the people of the Diocese of Peshawar. God’s love is manifest to those with eyes to see. But we have constructed a world in which it is getting harder and harder to recognize God, because of the clutter, the noise, the driving expectations we place upon ourselves, because loud, noisy snow plows careen through our lives destroying the few moments in which we have begun to find the peace for which we long.
“Where is God?” we cry out when tragedy strikes our family, when the reality of our own mortality begins to hit home. The light in that tiny stable in Jerusalem so many years ago seems devastatingly small when our lives and the lives of those we love are engulfed with the darkness of suffering. “Where is the promised peace, the new kingdom in which there will be no more tears?” we ask, remembering the vision of the new heavens and the new earth promised in our reading from Isaiah. The rough abrasive voice of John the Baptist once again crashes into our reality this week, urging us to make a pathway to the door of the stable, urging us to repent, to let go of the things that will always darken our ability to see the signs of God ‘s love. But we are not even sure how to repent, of what more things we need to let go. Were already doing our best, taking care of our families, giving to those in need. Since we’re not God, surely we can’t be expected to fix all the problems in the world. We were asked to repent last week and we took it to heart then, trying to summon up the things for which we need to be forgiven. What more can we be expected to do?
But perhaps in the end it’s the frantic activity, the very need to make things right ourselves, that lies at the root of our inability to experience the salvation of the Lord in our lives. Perhaps we’re trying to do too much, instead of waiting on the Lord. Every year at this time we pray the beautiful prayers of longing and waiting, hoping that the reality of Christ’s coming will be greater this year than last. We read the promises of the coming of God’s Kingdom, and wonder what it will take for that kingdom to become a reality in our lives.
I experienced that reality once, while sharing a simple supper in a barrio in Mexico city where the river running past the house was not filled with water but open sewage, where a man had been killed only the week before because one of the loosely strung electrical wires a few feet above our heads had fallen down and electrocuted him. As we read the scriptures that night about a new Jerusalem where there would be no more tears, where all would have enough to eat I understood something of the deep longing of the human heart for peace, shalom, for all that is needed for well-being, that is contained in the hope of this season of Advent.
I also began to understand why those of us whose lives are carefully structured to protect ourselves from want of anything, from sickness, from failure of any kind, and even in the end from death need to find safe spaces where we can turn away from our perfect little lives, and allow the gentle beams of Christ’s light filter into the places of fear and dread we so cleverly manage to hide both from ourselves and from those around who love us. Because it is in allowing our vulnerability to be made known to those around us that we actually create a space for Christ to enter in.
St. Paul tells us that perfect love casts out fear, but I’m not sure we really believe him. Instead we are afraid to reveal the weakness, the sickness, the failure of our lives, in case we are shunned, cast out, no longer loveable at all. We are afraid that Christ will come in judgement, casting us aside because we are not yet perfect. But Christ does not come to us like a plow truck, barreling down the road, pushing mucky wet snow on those who happen to be standing by the side of the road. Christ comes instead as a new-born babe, asking us to hold him in our arms, to rock him, to love him as Mary loved her child.
In a conversation with Brother Leo, the Blessed Saint Francis of Assissi asked him if he knew what it meant to be pure of heart. “Sure” replied Leo, “It means to have no sins, faults or weaknesses to reproach myself for.” “Ah” said St. Francis, “now I understand why you’re sad. We will always have something to reproach ourselves for.” “Right,” said Leo. “That’s why I despair of ever arriving at purity of heart.” “But you don’t need to be so preoccupied with purity of heart” said St. Francis. “Turn and look at Jesus. Admire him. Rejoice that he is what he is – your Brother, your Friend, your Lord and Savior. That, little brother, is what it means to be pure of heart. And once you’ve turned to Jesus, don’t turn back and look at yourself. Don’t wonder where you stand with him. The sadness of not being perfect, the discovery that you really are sinful, is a feeling much too human, even bordering on idolatry. Focus your vision outside yourself on the beauty, graciousness and compassion of Jesus Christ. The pure of heart praise him from sunrise to sundown. Even when they feel broken, feeble, distracted, insecure and uncertain, they are able to release it into his peace. A heart like that is stripped and filled – stripped of self and filled with the fullness of God. It is enough that Jesus is Lord.”
The question we need to ask ourselves as Christmas approaches this year, is whether we are willing to bring all that we are to the stable door, not just the neat, well manicured, well educated selves we present to the outside world, but also the scared, selfish, messed up parts of ourselves as well.
“What shall I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb.
If I were a wise man I would do my part
But what I have I give him…Give my heart, give my heart.”
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