Mark 13:24-37
Presented November 27th, 2005, by J.D. Kline
The First Sunday of Advent
One of the lesser-known books of the Hebrew Scriptures is the book of Lamentations, a series of five poems of lament that emerge from a deep wound—from the experience of exile. It was a time, some six centuries before the birth of Jesus, when the city of Jerusalem was destroyed, the Temple left in ruins, and many of the people forced to move to a strange land—the land of Babylon. The poems found in the book of Lamentations were written from the perspective of those who were left behind amidst the destruction of Jerusalem—mostly the poor in the land.
Not only did the ravages of war leave a trail of illness, hunger and poverty, but the very symbols of faith that held life together for the people of Israel—these symbols were destroyed. It was as if all of the people’s spiritual underpinnings had collapsed, with the resulting sense for the people that God had apparently deserted them.
The first poem in Lamentation, chapter one, portrays Jerusalem as a widow “weeping bitterly in the night” (v. 2), convinced that all hope has been lost. The poems continue in this vein, one lament after another, when all of a sudden, in the middle of the third chapter, the poet reverses course, and those remarkable words on which we base the much-loved hymn, Great is thy Faithfulness—these words issue forth. After asserting that his soul is bereft of peace and all happiness is gone, the poet nevertheless cries out,
But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope:
the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,
God’s mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness (3:21-23).
Consider with me this intriguing juxtaposition of despair and hope, this peculiar combination of lamenting things as they are while hoping beyond hope for the coming of something new. Does that not capture much of the spirit of the Advent season, with its anticipation of a coming transformation of life, even when all appearances remain to the contrary? In her book May I Have This Dance? spiritual retreat leader Joyce Rupp suggests that “Advent is a season for exiles. It is a time of waiting, a time of yearning for light to dispel the darkness.”
We know what it’s like to experience exile, don’t we? Who among us has not had times when it has felt as if the spiritual underpinnings of our lives have been knocked out from under us—times of uncertainty, times of deep alienation, times of discouragement and despair, times when it has felt as if God has deserted us? Indeed, we live in a day and age far more accustomed to despair than to hope. We live in a time when it requires a remarkable act of faith to trust the Advent promise of light coming into our darkness, of peace breaking out in place of our world’s violence and warfare and oppression, of grace speaking powerfully to a world far more accustomed to competition and to bickering over status and position in life.
Perhaps you heard the story, earlier this week, of Eileen Harris looking intently into the eyes of the man who killed her Buffalo Grove daughter and husband some months ago, talking to him of God’s forgiveness. Chaplain at a nursing home, ordained in the Lutheran Church, Eileen Harris asked the courts not to sentence Russell Sedelmaier to death, based upon her faith conviction that capital punishment only continues the cycle of violence. Of her decision to speak words of forgiveness to Russell, Eileen Harris stated, “I really felt in my heart forgiveness. I really know that if God can forgive him, why not me? That’s where I am in terms of my faith and my understanding of life.”
Advent is a season for speaking words of faith that run counter to the prevailing norms of the society around us. Advent is a season of forgiveness, standing against a world far more bent upon vengeance and retaliation. Advent is a season for anticipating peace in a world that seems to have grown content with violence and reprisal and warfare. And Advent is a season in which we act compassionately and hopefully, even though the world around us chooses to hold fast the ways of brokenness and division, fear and hostility.
Advent is indeed a time of waiting, but it is far from an idle waiting. Advent waiting is not a matter of comfortably sitting by, twiddling our thumbs while we wait for God to intervene in the midst of human brokenness and pain. Truth is, there is an element of impatience in Advent waiting. The prophet Isaiah, faced with the remnants of the destruction of Jerusalem, yet anticipating the rebuilding of Israel in the days after the exile, cries out to God, “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down” (64:1).
Advent is the season of the church year that announces that this is precisely what God does—that in Jesus Christ, God tears open the heavens and comes among us. But God comes among us, not as most would anticipate—not as a warrior king who will destroy the enemy and rebuild Israel into a powerful political entity. Instead, Jesus comes initially as a vulnerable infant who grows into a suffering servant who challenges us to put on a whole new way of living and relating. Jesus challenges us to love our enemies and pray for those who would persecute us, to go the extra mile in relationships, to seek the things that make for healing and wholeness and peace in human life, to overcome oppression and proclaim the wondrous message of a love that knows no limits. It is a love that does not exclude, a love that reaches out to the broken, the hurting, the alienated, the lost. It is a love that takes our breath away.
In Advent you and I are waiting with eager longing for the reality of that kind of love to burn its way into the hearts of all persons and into the very fabric of all human relationships and all human societies. There is nothing soft and comfortable about Advent waiting. No, Advent waiting compels us both to trust that something new is in the works, and to begin to live now as if this new realm of justice and compassion and peace were already present among us.
Most of us don’t like to wait, so accustomed have we become to fast food, immediate access to the Internet, automatic bank tellers, instant gratification. But Jesus seems to be suggesting that waiting creates an open stance toward life, and is therefore a necessary part of learning to trust God. In his book Finding My Way Home Henri Nouwen puts it this way:
To wait with openness and trust is an enormously radical attitude toward life. It is choosing to hope that something is happening for us that is far beyond our own imaginings. It is giving up control over the future and letting God define our life. It is living with the conviction that God molds us in love, holds us in tenderness, and moves us away from the sources of our fear.
Our spiritual life is a life in which we wait, actively present to the moment, expecting that new things will happen to us, new things that are far beyond our own imagination or prediction.
To a world preoccupied with control, that is a radical position indeed. Is not this willingness to let God define our lives what Jesus has in mind when urging his followers to heed the seasons? Prodding us to see with the eyes of God, Jesus suggests that we might learn a lesson from the fig tree. “As soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you will know that summer is near” (Mark 13:28). You will know that change is coming.
Many read Mark 13 as a chapter about the end of the world. But primarily the chapter focuses on the Temple, and Jesus’ conviction that the Temple will once again be destroyed. Why? Because the message Jesus proclaims stands in opposition to the system of Temple worship. The Temple represented a system in which patriotism and faith had become so enmeshed that persons arrogantly assumed that God existed only for the sake of one group of people. Has something of a modern ring to it, does it not? Jesus asserts that the old mindset must end, that the people must awaken to a new call to be light for all the world.
This is what Jesus has in mind when urging the disciples to keep awake, to pay attention to the seasons. Something new is coming, says Jesus, something that will replace the old system of exclusivity and oppressive demands for law-keeping. That new thing includes the creation of a new community—the church—where old divisions and barriers collapse, and a new set of values and priorities are embraced. The church is a community of God’s people seeking to live out the self-giving love and compassion, the grace and mercy, the peace and hope of Jesus, in a world that would tell us that such a lifestyle is utterly preposterous.
Henri Nouwen puts it this way:
Christian community is the place where we keep the flame of hope alive among us and take it seriously so that it can grow and become stronger in us. In this way we can live with courage, trusting that there is a spiritual power in us when we are together that allows us to live in this world without surrendering to the powerful forces constantly seducing us toward despair.
This is the message of Advent. While we lament the way things are in the world around us, with its continuing attraction for suspicion and fear, violence and injustice, yet we also look forward to the coming of something new, something that takes our breath away. It is the promise of God’s kingdom coming in all its fullness, and because of that promise, it is experiencing the power to embrace hope rather than despair, light in the midst of darkness, community rather than division and brokenness, peace in place of violence and warfare, love rather than hatred and indifference. Thanks be to God, who has torn open the heavens and come among us bearing the promise of new life. Amen.
Pastoral Prayer
Loving God, just as your coming in the birth of the infant Jesus centuries ago astounded those who recognized it for what it was, so surprise us, even now, as you break into the routines of our lives. Break into our lives with renewed hope and trust—trust that life need not be limited to the brokenness and violence, the warfare and injustices, of our day; trust that despair and discouragement need not have the final word in life. Rather, it is your love, O God, that stands as the final word.
Surprise us, O God, with your peace—an inner peace that passes all human understanding, encouraging us in our times of struggle, and guiding us as we seek to live faithfully, walking in the footsteps of Jesus. Surprise us not only with peace in our hearts, but also with peace breaking out in the world around us. Bring an end to warfare. Turn swords into plowshares; transform weapons of destruction into instruments of healing and reconciliation. And form us into a community of peace, a people whose passion it is to tear down walls of suspicion and misunderstanding as we reach out with the love of Christ, with compassion and grace beyond measure.
God of us all, we pause now to remember those in special need of your healing care. We remember the poor, the homeless, those struggling with addictions, those who are alone and who feel as if they have no one to turn to. We pray as well for those faced with physical illness…
Surprise us again and again, holy God, with the wonder of your grace—a love that accepts us as we are and enables us to become far more than we ever imagined we could be. In this season of Advent waiting, deepen our hunger and thirst for your love—a love that renews us, transforms us, recreates us, redeems us, and sets us free to grow up fully into Christ, in whose name and spirit we offer these prayers. Amen.