Shifted Longings
A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli at St. Matthew’s UMC November 27, 2011, the first Sunday of Advent.
Texts: Isaiah 64:1-9, Mark 13:24-37
The word “advent” means “coming” or “beginning.” It is a new start. And so with the beginning of Advent each year, we may find ourselves thinking about how THIS is the year that things will be different. THIS Christmas we will get our act together, we will get the cards out on time, the cookies baked without burning half of them or allowing the dog to pull the bowl off the counter and eat all the cookie dough; this year we won’t go over budget or wait until the last minute to think about gifts for people; this year all those Martha Stewart decorating ideas and Real Simple gift ideas will actually materialize, with all the gifts perfectly wrapped with matching, homemade paper; the Advent Wreath that we have set up in a prominent place will get lit with appropriate, meaningful prayers each week; THIS year when we get out our boxes from storage, the lights won’t be tangled into one large knot and they will all light up when they get plugged in; THIS year the stress of the season won’t lead to arguments or unhealthy overindulgence; this Advent we will truly sense God’s presence, be mindful of what it’s really all about; THIS Advent and Christmas will be happy, peaceful, perfect—or at least better than before…
My guess is that many of us here today have long since realized that some of these expectations are long-shots. But as one United Methodist author and pastor says, Advent “is a dangerous season.” Its dangers lie in our longing and expectation for things to get wrapped up in our lives with beauty and order and peace…I think it may be a hold-over from our childhood for many of us…this sense that at Christmastime, things should be magical and peaceful and perfect. But this longing is challenged by everything around us that tempts us to stress and excess—excess in spending, planning, social engaging, and eating. The irony in the season of Advent is that we are asked to wait and watch (slow down?) and stay awake to look for the coming of Christ, to open ourselves to receive this perfect, beautiful gift—and the culture around us crams our bodies and senses so full that there’s little room left for the holy family to dwell—no room in our calendars, no room in our minds, no room in our budgets, no room in our bodies. How often do you suppose that we metaphorically turn Mary and Joseph away because there’s “no room” in us for them to give birth to the Christ?
Our expectations on the first Sunday of Advent almost immediately get smashed to pieces—a detail that should teach us something. We come looking for peace and light, and instead get words of lament and dark warnings. But the words of the prophet in Isaiah 64 always hit me in such a visceral way: “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down…” I imagine the Deus ex machina moment—the moment that God comes and sorts out all the stress and brokenness and foolishness and discord and violence and worry…Isn’t this what we want in some way? For God to show up (especially when it has seemed as though God had abandoned us), to help us, to not make us suffer through another year of disappointment? It is an ancient hope, this desire for God to swoop down from on high and tidy up the messes we make, to console our grief and to heal our brokenness—or the “woundedness” of a loved one or of a world at war.
We see that hope reflected in both the passage from Isaiah and Mark this morning. The communities involved in these passages were in desperate situations. Isaiah’s people had been exiled for generations and were lost and confused. Mark’s community was being persecuted because of their Christian faith. And yet, though cloaked in language of earthquake, fire, filthy cloth, and darkened sun, the prophetic word spoken among both groups is the word of hope—hope that God will come; God will save; God will restore.
The spiritual masters of our tradition are all of one mind when it comes to hope. Hope is not just wishful thinking. Christian hope is what wells up right in the midst of difficulty and frustration and disappointment. G.K. Chesterton once said that “Hope means hoping when things are hopeless, or it is no virtue at all…As long as matters are really hopeful, hope is mere flattery or platitude; it is only when everything is hopeless that hope begins to be a strength.”# The truth of these words is illustrated by one man’s experience at a little league baseball game. As the man approached the field, he asked a boy in the dugout what the score was. The boy responded, “Eighteen to nothing. We’re behind.” “Boy,” said the man, “I’ll bet you’re discouraged.” “Why should I be discouraged?” replied the little boy. “We haven’t even gotten up to bat yet!” That is real hope: hoping when things are hopeless.
Some things in life do seem hopeless—what feels hopeless might be as simple as how to wrestle our schedule into a rhythm that feels truly sustainable or as complex as the problems with healthcare in America or the deep distrust that bars any true peace in the Middle East. Situations both personal and global threaten to steal our hope. And yet it is just these kinds of situations that give us the opportunity to experience the miracle of hope—that miracle of believing that things can be different, better than they are today—even when all seems lost.
The content of our hope from a Christian perspective is that in Jesus we have received the perfect gift of God’s love in flesh. God has drawn as near as our own heartbeat and, through the Incarnation, has come right into the midst of all the pain and brokenness and despair of the world; God’s loving presence continues through the gift of the Holy Spirit. And the promise is that in all times and places and ways, God is working to bring transformation, is redeeming and blessing and loving and saving. The promise is that God will ultimately transform all our strife and stress and brokenness and fear and violence, bringing all creation into perfect harmony and peace. The content of our hope is that in life, in death, in life beyond death, we are not alone. God is Emmanuel, God is with us. And God is always moving in, around, and through us to heal, to help, to save. Christian hope is not just wishful thinking; it is not shallow or simple. Christian hope is a longing for God to tear open the heavens and come down—not to tidy up or to take over so as to enslave our freedom—but rather to dwell so closely with us that we can begin to truly see the light of Christ and be led by that light and transformed by that light.
It’s not easy to let go of our longing for God to tear open the heavens and come down, to make all the bits of life that are painful just go away—or at least all our plans go off without a hitch.
As much as we might wish for things in life to be simple and orderly and predictable, what we are given is a life that is rich in its complexity, a life in which some of the most profound beauty emerges from the most difficult situations, a life in which we learn abiding faith, hope, and love in the messiness of human relationship and community. The life we are given is all gift and the promise that enlivens our hope is that God will transform not only our own lives, but the whole creation… The same author who said that Advent is dangerous also says that Advent is a creative time. “Somewhere, gestating in the gathering storm, something new is preparing for birth. Nurtured on the vision of a God-filled world, sustained by the knowledge of God’s past faithfulness, and consumed by the fire of God’s love for the earth, a new incarnation is coming to this old world. It promises to come to remake us as well.”# It won’t happen on our schedule. We can’t control the how or the when. But what we CAN do is try to keep awake to the promise, to look for signs of God at work in our lives and in the world. We can try to slow down and open up and make space for Christ to abide with us. We can offer ourselves to the transforming, potter God as clay that longs to be molded into a more integrated, peaceful, loving shape.
I read this past week about a flight attendant who misspoke in giving the standard directions for deplaning. She said, “Be careful as you open the overhead bins, as your longings may have shifted during the flight.” Journeys do tend to shift things, and the journey we begin today invites us to shift our longings—to direct those longings toward God and the promises for transformation extended to us—even in the midst of desperation, stress, failure, or fear. We are invited to shift our longings and expectations from “perfection” in a Martha Stewart way to the perfect love that is offered in and through Jesus. We are invited to shift from wishful thinking to Christian hope—which is magical in a miracle kind of way.
