Advent 1B - Advent when the world is horrible

032. These Trees Bear Bokeh


Isaiah 64:1-4
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!
When you did awesome deeds that we did not expect,
  you came down, the mountains quaked at your presence.
From ages past no one has heard,
  no ear has perceived,
 no eye has seen any God besides you,
  who works for those who wait for him.


Mark 13:24-37
[Jesus said:] “In those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory. 27Then he will send out the angels, and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven. From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that he is near, at the very gates. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away. But about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come. It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch. Therefore, keep awake—for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly. And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.”

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It is 2017 and the world is horrible.

This is not the first time the world has been horrible. It will not be the last.

But right now, today, December 3, 2017, I declare that the world is horrible.

Creation is groaning under the weight of climate change. Our world is heating up. Our resources are being depleted.

War and terrorism and mass shootings keep overtaking the news headlines. Tools of violence are plenteous. Resources for care and rehabilitation of mind and soul are scarce.

Money continues to flow in the direction of those who have money. Power continues to flow in the direction of those who say loudest the things that affirm our own self-centeredness and our own selfishness. Our economy continues to be built on the backs of those who least benefit from it.

We are at war over religion. We are at battle over race and gender and sexuality. We don’t see each other as fellow humans, fellow bearers of the image of God. We prey on our differences and create divisions that appease our desire toward anger.

Every day, people fighting. Every day, people dying. Every day, hungry people. Every day, sick people.

Meanwhile, Advent has begun. The church has transformed into a sea of blue and light. Even though the weather isn’t cooperating, we feel ourselves settle into patterns of winter coziness - mugs of hot chocolate, twinkle lights, gatherings with family and friends, soup on the stove, Christmas music on the stereo, because let’s be honest, even though in worship we focus our music on singing our rich store of Advent music, outside of the sanctuary, all music - Advent and Christmas alike! - is totally fair game.

Life right now is this bizarre clashing of warm, bright holiday stuff and cold, dark realities in the wider world.

As I was out for an evening run a couple weeks ago, a deep fog rolled in as I was approaching the campground, which was doing one of its first testing of all of the Holiday Lights displays. The sun was setting, the fog was obscuring the treetops, and then, in a surreal burst of light and cheer, the campground was illuminated by hundreds of Christmas lights.

The contrast of the fog and the lights (plus my general feelings of sadness about the state of the world) made me think about how we celebrate Advent and Christmas when things in our world feel decidedly dark and broken. I started thinking about people who are facing pain and grief and loneliness and despair even in the midst of a season where we speak so earnestly about watching and waiting for Christ with hope and expectation.

I thought to myself, how do you observe Advent and celebrate Christmas when the world is horrible?

And then we read today’s gospel.

Jesus says, “In those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory. When you see these things taking place, you know that he is near, at the very gates. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come. What I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.”

Jesus was talking to disciples who were looking with him down the short road to the cross and panicking, because it felt like the world was ending. Mark was writing his gospel to a group of believers witnessing the destruction of their city and temple, who were despairing, because it felt like the world was ending. We, with them, cling to the promise that Jesus will come again, no matter how hard the earth shakes, no matter how much it feels like the world is ending.

So it’s not a matter of figuring out how we might keep Advent when the world is horrible, as if there have been other, better points in history when the world has been perfect and unblemished and able to watch and wait for Christ’s coming without any feelings of longing or woe. The fact of the matter is that we keep Advent precisely because the world is horrible. We need Advent because there is yet suffering in the world. We need Advent because the kingdom that has come to birth among us has not yet come to fruition - the wolf and the lamb are still growling at each other, swords are still swords, the crooked places are still crooked.

Isaiah cries out, “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down!” - which is exactly the prayer of my heart these days and maybe yours too, that God would burst onto the scene, once and for all, and wipe away all the powers of evil and death and brokenness that loom so large in our existence. And that’s the thing about what Jesus is saying in our gospel today - where our world seems to crumble toward chaos and fear, God promises to break in and to break down the world so that it can be rebuilt for hope and for life.

In Wendell Berry’s novel, Jayber Crow, his title character reflects, “History overflows time. Love overflows the allowance of the world. All the vessels overflow, and no end or limit stays put. Every shakable thing has got to be shaken.”

When Jesus comes again, he makes it pretty clear that he’s going to shake things up. Just as Jesus’ birth was heralded by a crazy traveling star and a sky full of angels, at the end of the ages, Christ’s return will be marked by signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars; even the powers of the heavens will be shaken when the kingdom of God is comes near. The message here is clear: when Christ breaks in – and I mean really breaks in – to our existence, every shakable thing will be shaken.  Nothing will be as it once was.

Growing up, I shared a room with my two younger sisters.  We slept on bunk beds that were opposite a wall filled with shelving, which held books and records and toys and games.  One afternoon when I was about nine years old, we were charged with the simple task of cleaning up our room.  The expectation was that we’d put the Legos back in the box and return our stuffed animals to our beds, and really just tidy up the clutter.

But since I was nine years old, in charge of the situation, and, obvious to me now, a Type A personality, I took one look around the room and decided that the only way to truly get things cleaned up was to take everything off of the shelves and completely reorganize the room.  A quick-fix tidy-up-the-clutter mentality seemed insufficient to me.  So I started pulling books off the shelves.

Berenstain Bears and Angelina Ballerina and Amelia Bedelia flew from shelf to floor. CandyLand and Chutes and Ladders sat at the bottom of a pile underneath “Wee Sing Silly Songs” and “Wee Sing Bible Songs” cassette tapes.

You should have seen the look on my mother’s face when she walked into the room, expecting to see things neater, and instead seeing absolute chaos. I calmly and rationally explained to her, “the room will be cleaner if we just take everything down and start over.”

This is what Jesus is trying to teach us in today’s gospel: that out of God’s overflowing love, he promises us hope and life and reconciliation and redemption, even if it means turning the world upside-down to bring us all of those things.

Jesus promises us that he will return, and that our lifetimes of advent waiting will not be in vain. Jesus promises us that when all creation trembles about us, and when we feel certain that chaos is about to rule the day, we will yet be able to hold our heads high, for God has promised us his kingdom, and we are not without hope.  Jesus assures us that when the world finally breaks open under the weight of God’s love, it is our redemption – and not our destruction – which is drawing near.

Because Jesus has already broken into our human existence once before. He shook a star loose from the sky, he calmed the raging seas, he walked on water, and he reversed people’s fortunes: sick people were healed, outsiders became insiders, justice became mercy. And, on the cross, death became abundant life.

God’s kingdom is already stirring among us.  The promise of restoration has already been given to us.  And in this waiting gap, we raise our heads in hope, looking to the day when the love of God so overflows the world that it comes crashing through all of our limits and shakes the final foundations of the world.  For in this sweep of change, we can see through to a glistening picture of God’s restoration for us and for our world.

If we truly do believe, in this and every horrible Advent, that Christ will come again, that God is love, that the Spirit is on the move among us, then the trembling of the earth, while terrifying, is also not a reason to pull the covers over our heads and hide from the difficult parts of life. Christ tells us to keep awake, to engage with our broken and battered world, to live bravely according to the hope that is in us. Let me tell you, this hope is pretty subversive. It’s pretty counter-cultural. It’s pretty rebellious. Because hope says, “No matter how bad it seems, this is not the end of us. No matter how dim the path, there is yet light up ahead. No matter how powerless we are to overhaul the world, God can - and will - overcome our world with love and goodness and grace.”

May God bless you with the gifts of faith and of hope in this Advent season. May God open your eyes to his promises of healing and joy on the far side of whatever your present struggle. May God light a flame in your heart that chases away all shadows of fear or despair, no matter how horrible things might seem. May you hold your head up high and may you keep awake, a beacon of hope and life and grace for all this watching and waiting world.

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