Ready For The Advent

Luke 21:25-36

Are you ready?

Have you “raised your head”, as Jesus says, to see the signs of what’s coming, so you’re all prepared?

 

How many of us are ready for Christmas?

 

Okay, how many of us are ready for God to finally come in triumph and glory and transform the world?

Ready for God to come on an avalanche of chaos, disruption, destruction, uncertainty and surprise?

 

Jesus has told us – and we’ve repeated the story to one another for two thousand years, so we might remember that Jesus told us – to be always ready to “stand up”, to be firm amid the chaos in our faith and our hope; to “raise our heads” with courage and confidence.

 

Any time, everywhere, we are supposed to be alert for the signs and the reality of the glorious final arrival of Jesus in all of God’s unbounded power and splendor.

 

I want to be.

I just don’t think I ever quite am.

 

It’s not just the chaos I’m not entirely prepared for. I’m not sure I’m ready to cope with the arrival of all the glory and the finally unambiguous and overwhelming presence of God.

 

I may make this confession every year.

I know I work through this thought process regularly.

Because, frankly, whatever Jesus’ first disciples were expecting based on these signs and parables Jesus told them about, I’ve never quite figured out what I should be expecting about the new coming of the “Son of Man”, or when we should be expecting it.

 

And, like many of you, every year around this time I have to confront the dissonance that comes when the church starts talking about the dramatic (and perhaps traumatic) arrival of God’s final judgement and renewal of the world at the same time that we’re preparing our children to tell the story of the arrival of a charming helpless baby. And while the rest of the world around us is frantically urging us to prepare for an annual blast of gift-giving and overeating.

 

Which is may be what the church expects for us.

 

Because the very first thing we do in our church year, in our season of Advent, is not to celebrate the past but, in light of that past, to embrace the future.

To remind ourselves that the faith we share is not just about what God has already done. That faith is also about – mostly about – what God is going to do.

We start our cycle of faith with the story of the final thing we look forward to – the ultimate triumph of God’s glory, power, and love in transforming the messy, corrupted, selfish world we know into the healed, healing, generous, trustworthy full experience of God’s creativity, justice, and love.

 

And that’s the Advent, the “coming” we are preparing for.

Not just in this short, crowded four weeks of December, but a preparedness meant to start now, and last us all year; always.

 

The job of the Advent season is to remind us that when we were baptized – or whenever we first claimed our faith or that faith claimed us – when we accepted the gifts that God has already given us, we committed ourselves to the hope and expectation of God’s coming again, to believing and trusting and living so we can be ready for that at any moment.

 

In fact, we’re supposed to be so focused on our expectation of, and preparation for, the ultimate coming of Christ to transform our world that we are utterly surprised to discover God showing up as a helpless human infant when the 25^th of December rolls around.

 

Some twenty centuries of remembering the baby – while the ultimate revelation and salvation hasn’t happened yet – has led us to deeply set habits of expecting the baby. Expecting the coming of God to be gentle, adorable, and already done. A mission accomplished, and worthy of celebration with joy and generosity and cheerful gatherings and an overabundance of rich, sweet foods.

 

And it is.

But it’s also not.

 

The coming of God – accomplished once in the infant Jesus – is what we are still waiting for, and we’re waiting for the triumph of God. The restoration of unquenchable, overwhelming rightness and justice and health and truth everywhere, not just within us.

We’re waiting for the full and unfiltered divine power of God to be right in the middle of our daily lives and transforming the entire world.

That is what we’re supposed to be preparing for this month.

All the time.

 

I wonder what our Decembers, what our Christ-Mass preparations, would be like, if we expected not a baby in a manger, but a powerful divinity wrapped in clouds and eye-tearing glory, twenty-four days from now.

 

What would we shop for, and give as gifts, in celebration of all tumbling together into the chaos of holy transformation, of entry into a world we won’t recognize – but that we long for as the fulfilment of holiness and love?

 

I imagine our gift lists would be more likely to include a compass, and sturdy shoes,  than scented candles and fuzzy slippers. 

Lightweight, sturdy backpacks ready to adventure with us would be more popular than a better TV to be secured to the wall.

Our kids would ask Santa for maps and seeds and healing kits instead of squishmallows and playstations.

We’d exchange traditional family recipes for light, stable, energy-dense food, instead of sweet cookies and candy.

 

One thing, though, would be exactly the same.

We’d gather together.

Because even more than when we are preparing to celebrate a good thing already done, when we are preparing for a good thing yet to come that will change everything we know, we need friends. We need relationships, and community, and love.

 

We need to share stories and songs and care that strengthen us, renew us. We need to give each other, and receive from each other, the power of peace and confidence and joy.

 

And we need to keep expanding that circle of trust, and support, that network of shared hope.

The friends, the companions we already have, may be enough for the celebration of what God has already done. But the celebration of what God is going to do is a celebration that keeps pulling more people in. That must keep us building new mutual supports, new trusts; keep expanding our shared experiences, and our shared hopes.

 

Because to be ready in Advent, to be ready for the Advent, the Great Coming of God, is not to be done with the work of celebration, and generosity, but to be in the middle of the actions of love, and hope, and trust. To “raise our heads” and notice the signs of God breaking into our ordinary world, and to respond with hope, and confidence, as change goes on and on around us.

 

God has not asked us to complete love, to finish faith, (and certainly not by the 25^th of this month!) but rather to “stand up”, together, ready to join the transformation of Christ’s coming, to live our love and faith in the midst of God’s making all things new.

No Heroes?

Mark 13:1-8; Hebrews 10:11-14, 19-25

I’m getting very tired of the end of the world.

Weary, and heart-achy, and doubting my stamina for more alarm, and predictions of disaster and instability.

 

And, here it is again this week, just as it is every year about this time, in our cycle of reading the gospels and living the seasons of the church.

Every year in November we start hearing apocalyptic predictions from Jesus, as the church ramps us up toward the season of Advent. Ramps us up for practicing our expectation of the great day of Christ’s coming once for all to end the world and renew the universe.

 

Today, we hear Jesus warn of wars and rumors of wars. Natural disasters and famines and international conflict, and that’s all only the beginning.  

And – I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m even less ready for all of that today than I am most years around this time.

 

Not quite every year, but most years – and almost any time of year – the headlines of world news make a pretty decent case that we could be, now, in the moment Jesus is talking about. A world of international – and inside-the-nation – conflict. Of natural disasters, or famines, or plagues.

And sometimes I feel prepared to face it. To encounter the end of the world with courage and faith.

And sometimes I just don’t.

Sometimes I know I am not ready for the end of the world.

Often, in fact, I long for stability.

For the solidity and trustworthiness of the institutions I depend on – just like Jesus’ early disciples in today’s story, pointing out the substantial, solid stability of the Temple.

Only to hear Jesus announce it’s all going to fall apart.

[Sigh.]

 

And not only is the whole order of the world as we know it going to fall apart, but Jesus will go on to say he is expecting us to testify – to stand up to governments and councils and courts and proclaim good news and the presence and power of God, even while people hate or betray us.

 

And… I don’t want to be a hero.

 

I am willing to believe Jesus – to believe that the Holy Spirit will sustain us, that both God and the world need us – me, even – to proclaim good news, to proclaim God’s presence and power and love in the midst of danger and chaos and despair. But sometimes – often – I am not sure I’m capable of everything faith calls for, in those times of chaos and change.
And I don’t really want to be a hero.

At least, not since I realized that most heroes don’t actually fly.

 

But maybe I – we – don’t need to be heroes.

Whether you or I are eagerly anticipating the coming of Christ to end all familiar things,
or whether we’re dreading the chaos and danger of the end of the world as we know it,

we might in fact be able to be what Jesus is expecting of us without actually having to be heroic.

In fact, we might just need to be….irritating.

Provoking.

 

Because it’s not just the words of Jesus that tell us how to be when we’re waiting for the coming Day of Christ, or experiencing the end of all we know. 

We also heard, a few minutes ago, a little glimpse into another community where people were, well, not sure if the world as they knew it was ending, but who definitely knew that they were supposed to be – like us – anticipating the day of Christ coming to thoroughly change the world.

 

In what we traditionally call “the Letter to the Hebrews”, but was more probably a sermon, we heard that community being advised that in their waiting, in that possibly end-of-the-world day they lived in, they should be “provoking”.

 

Specifically, provoking one another to love and good deeds.

I always trip over that phrase, because “love and good deeds” sounds like it should be more sweetness and light than provocation and annoyance. (Right?)

But I suspect that that particular word choice was not an accident.

Because irritation can often move us more quickly to action than good intentions ever get us off the couch.

 

Sometimes, I admit, I donate or support an important resource or cause just because hearing about it all the time is so irritating. (Public radio, I’m looking at you.)

Maybe some of you are provoked to shop for our household goods pantry because it’s annoying when I make announcements about it every week.

Sometimes a friend or a family member interrupts and annoys me so much that I have to stop the irritant and I focus, and look, and listen – and suddenly discover all over again the reasons I love that aggravating, wonderful person. Suddenly find myself wanting to take action for their needs – to love as a verb, not just a feeling.

And sometimes little bits of provoked love and good like that are important bits of the way Jesus comes into the world, and God changes everything.

 

There are plenty of other ways to provoke good deeds: friendly competitions in service to others; telling your stories of loving success until someone else just has to try it for themselves; persistent invitations to join you at St. Paul’s breakfast or Cathedral Kitchen’s dinners for our hungry neighbors.
Or just being a community where it’s so obvious we will meet the needs around us, protect human dignity, serve anyone as Christ, love the …difficult to love, that we accidentally noodge others to be the same.
Or experiencing a gentle provocation to be generous because the people you like to be with are generous people.

(It works in civic communities, too, not just in church communities.)

 

That ancient preacher tells us that we “provoke” one another this way because we have confidence and hope; have trust in God’s faithful promise to bring us into, hold us in, the direct and loving and powerful presence of God. 

Because we know that God is bringing us into the world as God dreams it to be, even when the world as we know it is ending.

 

If you or I don’t know that from our own experience today, we can know it from the experience and faith of those around us and before us, through one end of the world after another.

 

It’s as true now as it was 1900 years ago or so when that preacher first spoke to a wary, hopeful, uncertain congregation:

Whether we are anticipating the glorious, transformative coming of God among us,

or dreading the end of the world as we know it,

we hold fast to our hope of God’s deep, loving promises.

So we must “provoke one another to love and good deeds.” We cannot neglect to meet together in communities of faith and trust; we push back – together – against the forces of isolation and fragmentation, division and loneliness. We give – and receive - courage and support, heart and hope and love, from and to one another.

 

Whatever end of the world you and I have to live through, we can go on quietly telling the good news of God’s constant, insistent presence and love to those near us, those like us – and even to those opposed to us in small and daily ways.
We can act with just a little bit of courage to do the small right or holy thing in front of you or me at one particular moment. We can come together and encourage – give heart to – one another.

 

And we may – just may – look back some day and find that we have been quiet heroes – God’s heroes – after all.

Not Enough

Mark 12:38-44

How many of us have been in a situation where nothing you could do seemed to matter?

Maybe a good friend from college has cancer, or a difficult pregnancy, and you live halfway across the continent and can’t offer rides to chemo, or babysitting the other kids, or homemade soup – or whatever you do best to care for a friend in need.
All you’ve got is calling or texting or maybe DoorDash, and it’s just not enough.

 

Maybe you’re watching someone you love tank a relationship over a misunderstanding, or get scapegoated by a system you and they have no leverage to change.

 

Maybe your garden, or your time sense, are really distressed by 80 degree days in November – but is reducing your home power use and driving less really going to matter enough to change the climate for the better?

 

Maybe you’ve spent four days, or four years, or more, wondering how the government and people of your nation can be so misguided, or neglectful of real people’s needs, or incompetent or dangerous – and frustrated with how little there seems to be for you or me to do to change that.

I strongly suspect many of us have felt that way at least once in the past few years, however we feel this week.

 

And how many of us have asked ourselves, at least once, why we should bother to pray, or to give, or to work, or to try, or even to hope – when nothing I, or you, can do could possibly make the difference?

 

If that’s never been you, God bless you.

I want to know your secret, and I have some challenging tasks I’d like your help with!

 

But when I – and maybe you – feel like we have no power to matter, well, those are the times when it might be helpful to notice what Jesus is noticing in the story we just read today.

 

When Jesus sat with his friends in the Temple, watched as folks came and went, presenting their offerings for the glory of God and the ministry of the Temple, and noticed the one person among them all whose offering could not possibly have made a difference.

 

Noticed the widow – a term which flags for us that this person was one of the least powerful and most vulnerable people to come into the Temple – the woman who offered two basically worthless coins.

 

No power; no visibility and influence; no possibility of making an impact.

And she gave everything she had.

 

Maybe there was someone in the Temple treasury or administration who knew this widow – knew her faithful commitment and dedication, paid attention over the years. Maybe there was a group of other worshipers who loved her, prayed with her and shared jokes, valued her in the community, like so many of our faithful people here at Trinity.

 

Maybe there wasn’t.

Maybe no one else would have ever realized she existed, if Jesus hadn’t called our attention to her.

 

Or maybe Jesus calling attention to her sparked a change in the scribes and other Temple leaders he was calling out just before this scene. Maybe some of the scribes and leaders listening heard Jesus comparing this widow to the people who care for their own ego and prestige instead of caring for the vulnerable, and changed their own behavior from “devouring widow’s houses” to supporting and sustaining widows and all the vulnerable people God has always told us to care for, and attend to as God’s beloved – even if they thought they couldn’t change the whole system.

Maybe not.

We don’t know.

 

We do know that Jesus noticed.

That God notices.

That the little, useless-feeling things we can do; things that couldn’t possibly make a difference to the world, or the system, are noticed by God.

Matter to God.

Perhaps mean everything, with God.

 

There’s nothing wrong – there’s much that is good – about “giving out of our abundance”.

When we have the money, or the time, or the influence, or enthusiasm – when we have the power to make a difference what we do absolutely matters.

When we give out of our abundance, we also get to enjoy the rewards of unstrained generosity, the fun of making something better – and perhaps even the public recognition of, and respect for, our contributions and efforts.

 

But when we give our “not enough to matter”, our “nothing” that costs all we have, God notices.

Jesus pays attention.

And God can make our nothing into everything.

Can make your not-enough, and my nothing-left-to-matter, into the thing necessary in that moment for God’s love to change the world.

 

Our abundance and poverty – our power to matter, or our lack of it – is not distributed evenly.

Some of us have abundance of money, but poverty of time.

Some of us are rich in time, but desperately in need of emotional resilience and hope.

Some of us are rich in resilience, and poor in health or physical strength.

Others have strength, and need relationships. Others have love and connection overflowing and no cash at all. Some of us are rich in all those areas, some of us are strapped for everything.

 

And what many of us need to hear - what I need to hear from Jesus – is that where we have nothing to give, and we give it anyway, God sees it. Jesus notices.

And God can make it everything.

 

The powerless private joke (or meme) that’s all you’ve got might become the silver bullet a friend needs against despair.
The lunch invitation you don’t know how to find the time for, or the phone call you can scarcely muster the resilience for, might become the conversation that turns a tide.

The one meal you can make, or serve, to feed a hungry neighbor;

the single day of shelter or the brief window of protection you can scrape together; the one letter you can barely write;

the one meeting you can squeeze out the time to attend;

or the last scrap of guts or hope you can muster to speak up or speak out –

any of these might be the tiny right thing at the right time to save a life or move a metaphorical mountain.

 

The last two half-pennies in your hand might be an inspiration of systemic change, or a pebble that helps turn some inert weight of others’ abundance into an avalanche of good.

 

And your noticing - my noticing - when someone else is giving all they can, might just magnify “nothing” into enough to heal a heart or spark a fire of hope.

I don’t know for sure.

I do know that Jesus notices.

That God cares.

And that when there is nothing we can do that matters, what we do still matters, with God.

Might be everything, with God.