Every Year

Luke 21:25-36

Remember the super blood moon eclipse in September? Did you watch it? Take pictures? And when you did, did you remember the lunar eclipse in April, and the two last year, and the total eclipse of the sun in March? 

We’ve had a glut of eclipses lately, so I can only draw one conclusion: the End is Near.

It’s what Jesus told us, after all.

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress….” I’m not sure about the stars, but we’ve got the sun, the moon, and the distress on earth, haven’t we?

Paris, Syria, ISIS, Congress, economic woes and worries, the state budget, Laquan McDonald,  protests that sometimes feel like the glorification of criminal activity, protests that sometimes feel like the last hopeless stand for justice, protests where peaceful people get shot, people shot at the doctor’s office, climate change, pre-Thanksgiving snow, and of course there’s more.

There’s always more.

“People will faint from fear,” says Jesus, “panicking from the threats of doom, and then 

they will see the Son of Man coming with power and great glory,”

A shocking thing, that - not the high-production happy ending of the movie.

“But, you - when you see these things begin - stand up, raise your head, your redemption is near.”

These signs are like the budding of leaves, a promise that summer is coming, that abundance and growth and peace are nearly here, right?

So where’s Jesus?
Where’s the redemption, where’s the peace?
Because this year’s eclipses and wars and terrors and upheavals aren’t even the worst we’ve seen in our lifetimes. If blood moons and natural disaster and war are the signs that God’s kingdom is drawing near, it should have been here a long, long time ago.

Every year — every single year — the disasters and the wars and the panic and the signs that God’s kingdom is near. And every year, no end. No glorious, awe-inspiring descent from the clouds, no end of the world, and no happily ever after.

I’d like a refund.

Wouldn’t you?

I’d like to complain about the lack of truth in advertising, demand a different metaphor, a different parable, a more predictive, accurate model than this fig tree, except…

Look at the trees: when they bud, when that bright, temporary green haze spreads over the bare branches, we know that summer is coming, and - even if it snows in April - summer comes. 

It happens every year.  Every single year, and every year, no end.

And maybe - just maybe - that’s exactly what Jesus meant with his advertising - his parable, his metaphor. Maybe the fact that every year there’s war and terror and disaster and distress, that every year the signs keep coming, means that every year, every time, the Kingdom of God is already near.

That God keeps coming near to us, keeps bringing glory, keeps redeeming us, over and over and over and over again, and that that’s why Jesus cares so much that we stay alert.

“Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down, with either partying and denial or anxiety and worry” Don’t get dragged down by the anesthetics the world insists on: by the Black Friday hype that promises we can buy our way into happiness, or by the lure of multitasking, 

or the daily headlines of new worries, new foods to avoid, precautions to take, risks to avoid.

Stand up, raise your heads, welcome redemption, because it’s near.

Every time; 

every single time.

It’s quite a challenge to stand fast, to lay claim to greater confidence and expectation and dignity, when everyone and everything around you is going to insist on ducking, on letting fear and caution take the lead, instead of hopeful, expectant welcome and trust. Honestly, it often seems wiser, saner, to protect ourselves, to worry and prevent, instead of rashly raising our heads, thrusting ourselves into the storm.

To raise your head against a swamping tide of fear is incredibly difficult. We tell hero stories of people who did it: Harriet Tubman, Mahatma Ghandi, Jimmy Carter, Desmond Tutu, Malala Yousafzai, Doctors Without Borders… People who raised their heads and looked toward redemption, in spite of the tidal push to get along, to duck and shelter from the terror of disaster, or the numbness of oppression, or sharp-edged, violent opinion and politics; people who found the reign of justice and grace amidst the signs of disaster and danger and met it with watchful welcome.

Strength isn’t always comfortable, bravery is terrifying, hope requires endless commitment. Jesus knows it’s hard. That’s why he doesn’t want us to try it without praying, without opening our hearts and hands to the strength God wants to pour into us.

The church knows it’s hard. That’s why we celebrate Advent every year, in the midst of the Christmas rush, in the face of the repetitive round of disasters and wars and signs of the end.

We light candles, and teach ourselves to see them as hope, love, joy and peace, to keep our hearts alight within us. We develop patterns of waiting, practicing strength and trust as we eat only one of the Advent calendar chocolates each day. We change our prayers in church to remind us of the God who is always coming, and the people who need our welcome and hospitality now. We read the prophets again to remind us what to look for: for the exiles and outcast being welcomed home, for the growth of living things, for moments of completeness, for renewal, for justice, for joy.

Watching for those things, expecting those things, is what gives us reason to stand fast, to lift our heads, to be filled with trust and openness and welcome when fear and defense and anxiety are so much more common and acceptable and ordinary, even smart.

We need those practices, those sources of strength, of warmth and light for our souls and hearts,

because God keeps coming.  Every year, like the leaves on the trees, every day, like the headlines, God keeps coming to us, drawing near, ready to be welcomed, and accepted, and known.

This Advent, light candles.

Buy the chocolate Advent calendar, read the prophets, say the prayers.

Do that every day — every day that brings new headlines (the same headlines!), new little worries, the same big worries, new tempting indulgences, the same persistent temptations.

Practice Advent intentionally, because your redemption is coming near — this year, every year — and Jesus wants us ready.

And when we are ready - this year, every year - we will, he promises, recognize the savior coming in power and great glory — awe inspiring, not easy, but transformative — and God’s kingdom will bring justice and grace and unimaginable redemption, here in the midst of our familiar mess, as inevitably as summer follows spring.