Sermon: "The Tension of Advent," December 15, 2019
Rev. Ingrid Brown
Isaiah 35:1-10
This Advent we are learning our way together through the words of the prophet Isaiah – listening to his truth of the world, and where he saw God at work in the midst of his lived reality.
Last week Rev. Ryan reflected on Isaiah’s description of vivid decimation: the clear-cutting and destruction of a people and their land, inviting us to imagine all the forests between Nanaimo and Courtenay as wiped out and burned up – a smouldering wasteland of destruction. But. Isaiah sees a tiny, green branch awkwardly inching its way out – a hope of peace to come, a peace that is not just the absence of conflict, a peace of God’s making.
These weeks of Advent we have had promises of Hope, Peace, and today? Joy! Perhaps it is not a happy accident – well I don’t believe anything is a happy accident really – that I am preaching on JOY Sunday. If you know me, you’ll know that Joy is a geyser in me that often bubbles up and spills out all over. And if you’ve known me for a long time, you’ll know that Joy is a gift of the Holy Spirit, not one that has always been so prone to flooding out.
But that’s just it – Isaiah’s vision of Joy isn’t a promise of immediate jubilation, a quick fix, a snap of the almighty fingers to restore laughter and mirth – it is a vision of future joy that is coming but is not yet.
This is the tension that is Advent.
We are a people that seek hope, seek peace, seek joy, in a world in which they are not fully realized. Advent is the time of the year when we sit in that place between what is and what is yet to be.
And if we listen closely to day’s reading, we can recognize that Isaiah holds these together in a beautiful and poetic way. These are visions of joy, to be sure, but we would be wise to slow down with each of these verses to understand more deeply what he means. You see, two things are wound together here – in his revelations about God’s promises of bounty and safety and flowing water, Isaiah cleverly reveals to us the reality of the now, interweaving this desolation of the present with God’s vision of Joy for the future. So, in order to fully realize his powerful promises, we are going to pull apart the ‘now’ and the ‘not yet’ and then bring them back together.
Isaiah starts with an image of arid desert – one that he carries through most of the reading.
This is reality – there is no life here. No food, no water, no animals, no hope. Their land is completely parched.
He also speaks of wilderness – remember, this is Palestinian wilderness
It is a rocky, desolate, risky place.
In these places, there is drought and all the land and its inhabitants suffer. Survival is precarious, and those few living things who manage to hang on, fight over the very limited resources to carry on – he speaks of jackals prowling about, ravenous beasts circling.
The preceding chapters of Isaiah remind us that not only are these places barren, they are scorched by fire and scarred from the ravages of war, some of the landscape is still burning around them.
This is the physical landscape that surrounds Isaiah, but it also speaks to the interior life his people. They are parched, bare, desolate. All are suffering, there is no extra, there is barely enough to survive.
He tells of a people whose knees are trembling, whose weak hands falter. Fear and anxiety threaten to overtake them. And from that place of terror, of loss, of despair – they are divided. People against people: hatred and horror engulfing them. They are left disfigured, maimed, and broken.
Fast forward thousands of years, and these images, these fears don’t seem so ancient.
We, too, are a people divided. Political systems are breaking apart and even in stable countries, the gulf between the two sides seems to only be growing.
Pew Research tells us that all over the world we are becoming more polarized and separated from our neighbours – allowing our political affiliations shape our social circles and beyond, and fueling a greater distrust of those who disagree with us. The left moves further left, the right further right…so fa we cannot carry on a helpful discussion. We hide behind screens and blast others whose rhetoric chafes against our own.
We too, are a people whose knees are trembling, whose weak hands falter.
The National Post reported that not only are more than half of all Canadians struggling with anxiety and depression, but also that we are become undone en-mass by the almost manic collective striving for something…
And the ways we are seeking relief are causing war-like decimation: thousands of people in BC are over-dosing each month and our community is far from immune to it – last month the Comox Valley surpassed Campbell River in the proportion of deaths from drug overdose.
We, too, are a people whose landscape is burning.
The Alberta wildfires touched many of us personally, as family and friends scrambled for safety. We will not soon forget the images that filled our televisions, nor the cracking and screaming emanating from our speakers.
We, too, are a people who see so clearly the fight for simple survival all around us.
UNICEF reports that around the world, approximately 3.1 million children die each year from undernutrition, with 2 billion people each year suffering from micronutrient deficiency.
The planet is warming, the polar ice is melting, and survival of all life on the planet is threatened.
How can we possibly stand in this grim reality surrounded by the saccharine sweet melodies of overplayed verses of Frosty; the twinkling of the lights and glitter of everything decorated; and the promise of perfection on the Hallmark channel?
This is the tension of Advent.
And if that was all I had to say today, if that were the end of the story, if that was all Isaiah could muster, it would be very grim indeed.
I was listening to the Christmas song, “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear” and the second verse struck me as though I was hearing it for the very first time:
O ye, beneath life's crushing load, whose forms are bending low
Who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow.
It isn’t all I have to say today, it is not the end of the story, it is not even the end of that verse.
Yes, Advent begins in the dark. It begins in despair, and anguish and fear. It begins in the reality of where we are.
But it does not end there.
The Bible is relentless in its conviction that nothing that is skewed and distorted and deathly need remain as it is. God’s power and passion converge to make total newness possible.
God’s promises work against our exhaustion, our despair, and our sense of hopelessness.
This is the tension of Advent.
Listen to the rest of this verse of the hymn:
Look now for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing
O rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing.
Surrounded by barren sand and burning wilderness, Isaiah tells his people of God’s promise of blossoms covering the desert
Life! Colour! Unnecessary beauty. The ground will erupt with such fervour it will be like the crocuses are singing the glory of God!
And in God’s generosity in flourishing, God’s love will be revealed, God’s care for all of Creation will be known, without a doubt.
In the midst of Isaiah’s revealing of the truth of the pain of the world, are these ridiculous and rich, almost unfathomable images of restoration.
Weak hands, strengthened. Feeble knees made firm. Fears cast out through the redeeming power of God’s love.
Here is your God, Isaiah says. Here’s your God, and here’s what it will look like when God shows up – it will look like the opened eyes of the blind. It will look like unstopped ears of the deaf. It will look like the lame not only picking up their mat to walk, but leaping in joyous celebration, just like a deer. It will look like the voiceless not only speaking but singing! Singing! Singing with joy, singing with freedom, as the fires give way to cool pools and refreshing streams of living water fill the desert.
What extravagant promises, lavish, opulent…I wonder how the people heard them. Maybe they hung on his every word because his word was their only hope. Maybe they dared to believe.
And maybe the people scoffed at Isaiah’s prophesy. Maybe they wrote down his words to preserve a glimmer of hope – if not for themselves, then for generations to come, in the implausible possibility that he could be right.
This is the tension of Advent.
Because we know what comes next. We know the truth of Isaiah’s words because we have seen eyes opened and heard the songs of the free. This is the work of God in Christ, whose coming we are once again awaiting!
These are the stories of grace and mercy that make up the Gospels of Matthew Mark Luke and John. It is in the life and ministry of Jesus that these enormous expectations take on a physical body and the promise becomes real.
Jesus opens the gateway for life to begin again. He opened the gate, and removed the toll at the great highway Isaiah promises – the highway, the Holy Way – a place of safety and everlasting joy, FOR ALL. A way where no one goes astray – not even fools like you and me.
This is the JOY of Advent: God is here and coming! God is present even in the dry and barren places of life to await us in renewal, restoration, and salvation. God makes a way out of no way.
Each year, we step heavily through the Advent season, feeling our place in the gap between what has begun and what is not yet complete. We take our time to lean into the reality of human pain and suffering, embracing the harsh reality and hopelessness that Jesus comes to free us from. Advent helps us lean into that deep place in our guts that knows things aren’t right, and yearns for God.
And so, we direct our lives towards God’s opulent, extravagant promises of healing and beauty, safety and jubilation. We affirm God’s work even now, as we are surrounded by burning forests, melting ice, and war-ravaged children and we feel like our burdens are too much to bear. We proclaim that God is at work setting the world free. Not in mighty acts of power and force, but rather in ways that confound and shock: in crocus blossoms, full bellies, choral songs…and in the joyful gurgles of a brand-new baby, on whose birth we wait.