Waiting, Watching

Isaiah 64: 1-9, Mark 13: 24-37

Waiting is not what it used to be. 
Last Tuesday, I was waiting for my Dad to come for Thanksgiving.
And by “waiting,” I mean checking the United flight status info on the internet every 20 minutes.  
Then came the texting phase: On the taxiway at OHare  --  On my way -- In the terminal.  
And finally the phone phase: 
Where are you? Meet me at doorway 8.  Okay, I’m pulling up now -- Oh, wait, I see you!

That’s not the way I remember the Thanksgivings of my childhood, when the arrival of a car full of cousins was always a glad surprise.

And when Jesus taught and when the prophets wrote, waiting was a way of life.
Waiting for the rain, and then for the harvest.  Waiting for news to travel miles by foot. 
Waiting for birth without ultrasound images and induction dates.  Waiting for the master to get home from a months long journey, without any likelihood of messages to suggest the hour, the day, or even the week.
That’s not like waiting for a plane to land, today, or even like waiting for the family to gather, 25 years ago.
But it’s the way we wait for God.

It’s waiting for something that will change the present and the future – and maybe even the past – and waiting without an end in sight.

Did you notice that as soon as Jesus finishes reassuring his disciples that they’ll recognize the signs of God’s coming, he points out that it still won’t do them much good?
You’ll see the signs, he says.  But you won’t know when.  I don’t know when. 
It’s waiting without limits, without an end of the line.

Of course, it’s been almost two thousand years since Jesus said all that, and his disciples have seen most of those signs come and go over and over and over again.
We’re still waiting, more or less. But it’s gotten hard to wait expectantly for the coming of God.

In fact, I don’t think we really wait very much these days.
It may feel like we do.
In a highly wired, automated, instant messaging society, half a day for a return email or two minutes in line can feel like eternity. And let’s not even talk about traffic.
But waiting has become a hassle, not a faithful practice.

It’s too bad, in some ways, that you and I enter the Advent season knowing that we will celebrate Christmas on December 25.  It’s knowledge you can’t avoid, even if you never turn on the TV and stay miles away from the malls.  In fact, in culture and even in church these days it’s less and less like we’re waiting for Christmas, and more and more like we’re racing to Christmas.

That’s one of the reasons we’re reading poetry in worship this season.  Because poetry has a different relationship to time than prose, and it may wake us up to new ways of experiencing Advent.

In RowanWilliams’s poem today I hear the sharp-edged beauty of Advent – of a “coming” that is miraculous but not comfortable, both gradual and sudden, predictable but impossible to wait for. Williams’s poetry reminds me that Advent waiting is not about time, but about watching, being alert to what is,
so that we see the one who comes.

That’s the whole reason for the season of Advent.  It’s a season when – despite the rushing, don’t-wait, pressure of the holiday season around us – we practice watching, being alert to the things that are, to sharpen our hope and expectation of what’s to come.  Of God to come.

It’s a season for waking up from the habits of expecting God someday, to the longing for God to come now.

Waiting may be about patience.  About letting go of the belief that we can control events, or even just about the need to know when. That’s good for us, any time.
But Advent watching is about holy impatience.  About not being satisfied with a world where God isn’t back yet, and letting ourselves long for reconciliation and restoration here and now.

An Advent practice of holy impatience is not about getting done faster,
but of doing things we’ve given up hoping for. 
Like returning to the pain of a broken relationship, giving up blame and seeking healing.

There are other, simpler ways we can use the fragments of waiting in our ordinary lives to practice Advent watching.

Put down the remote control during commercials this month, and instead of waiting, watch:
Watch the images of problems and desire, and pray for the transformation of our wants and needs into longing for God’s will on earth, as in heaven.
Watch for glimpses of peace and generosity and love, and give thanks to God for a heart to see and hands to share.

Or, when you’re standing in a holiday-long checkout line, claim the time for faithful vision.  Imagine yourself walking out of the store into a world transformed by Christ’s return.  Who would you see?  What would you do? 
Pray for those people and actions, and let that inspire the rest of your day.
Perhaps you’ll see new signs of God’s presence even in the parking lot, practicing a few minutes a day.

We don’t live in a world that’s very good at waiting, and it’s harder than ever in the countdown to Christmas.  But this is Advent, and you and I are called to practice a holy impatience, to set free our longing for God here and now.

Not to wait, but to watch:
to stay alert for miracles,
because God is coming,
now and forever.

Images

Matthew 25:14-30, 1 Thessalonians 5:1-11

Last week I found myself talking with some clergy colleagues about our images of God and what they mean.  It was a thoughtful conversation, but about an hour later I realized we hadn’t really talked about our images of God at all.  We hadn’t spent any time talking about whether I see God as generous, short-tempered, or having a sense of humor.  No one had described God as loving, or beautiful, or scary. 

We all have an image of God.  But we may not spend much time talking about those images, or even thinking about them.

So think about your image of God for a minute: 

What is God like?

If you had to describe God to someone new, how would you do it?

There is a blank sheet of paper in your bulletin.   It’s waiting for your image of God.  There are little pencils in the pew holders, and extra pens right here.

You can draw what God is like. You can write adjectives, or lists, or poetry.  But spend a few minutes thinking about what God is like, and get that down on paper.

 * * *

My image of God is about things like

light, laughter, and joy

concern for doing the right thing, and a readiness to break rules

a sense of immensity, and a sense of intimacy

and a face that absolutely refuses to have features in my mind, but leaves a vivid sense of presence.

Your list is probably different.  Maybe your picture has a face, or maybe your image of God looks more like lightning or Jesus or a dove.  But whatever’s on that page, and in your mind and heart, is important.

Very important.

I asked you to do this exercise this morning, because our image of God is exactly what our gospel story is about.

Many of you know this one:

Three servants are asked to take care of some money for their master.  Two go out and double their money in the market; they are congratulated and rewarded with more authority and responsibility.  One buries the money to keep it safe, and is scolded and punished. So far, this story would work on Wall Street.

But Jesus’ parables are never really about life as we know it.  And the clue to this one is in the dialogue.  That man with the buried talent says: “I knew that you were a harsh man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not scatter seed; so I was afraid….”

He’s so afraid of doing wrong he decides to do nothing at all. He acts on his image of the master as a dangerous, greedy man.  And that image shapes the master’s response, too. 

We don’t much about the image of the master from other two servants, but they must have had a different image – an image about generosity, or the master’s trust in them, perhaps (since 5 talents is somewhere between $500,000 and $1.2 million in today’s dollars), or about very high expectations –

some image that encouraged them to take risks and expect rewards. 

Deliberately or unconsciously, you and I also respond to our image of God in our everyday actions – at work, at home, at church and in the quiet of our hearts.  Our decisions about time, and money – and talents! – reflect our images of God.

Think about that for a minute.  Think about your image of God, and about the decisions you make, the way you act in the world.

What does your image of God inspire you to do?

Does the way you see God inspire you to take care or to take risks?  To build a team? To take a stand?

Does your image of God inspire you to call your mother, or to start a business? To love, to grow, to laugh, to forgive?

Find someone in a pew near you, now, and tell them one thing your image of God inspires you to do.  Then listen to their inspiration.

 * * *

Your conversations just now are exactly what the gospel is about today – in fact, they’re what the gospel is about every day:

Our lives reflect our image of God.

Paul tells us that when our image of God is about salvation, we live clothed in faith, hope and love.

That’s a promise, and it’s a challenge, because the way we live shapes other people’s image of God. 

When we respond to an image of love and generosity, other people learn that gospel from us, and that image of God is reflected in their lives, and then in the lives of others,

who teach others,

until the reflection of light or love or grace shapes the whole human race.

Because, after all, we were made in God’s image.

And that image has power.