Joel D. Kline
November 30, 2003
Highland Avenue Church of the Brethren
The First Sunday of Advent
Perhaps you remember the bleak words that set the theme for the little-used book of Ecclesiastes in the Hebrew Scriptures. “Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity.” The New International Version puts it, “Meaningless! Meaningless! Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.” And the Revised English Bible translates, “Futility, utter futility, everything is futile” (Ecclesiastes 1:2).
You may be thinking, this is one heck of a way to kick off our Advent reflections, particularly in a time when there are already so many ominous signs on the horizon. Why remind us of our nagging fears that life lacks meaning, you may ask. Terrorism and war, fear and hostility, anxiety and stress—these are already too much with us. We need to hear about hope, not futility, do we not?
I was flipping television channels the other evening, and came across the old movie, “Fiddler on the Roof,” the story of the winds of change blowing across Russia in the early 1900s, experienced from the vantage point of the Jewish community. I picked up on the story just as Tevye, the father, has granted his blessing and permission to one of his daughters to marry a young scholar deeply committed to the coming political revolution. In an era of arranged weddings, it is unheard of, yet Tevye is drawn by the couple’s love. And as he shares the news with his wife, he’s driven to ask, “Golda, do you love me?” Golda looks at Tevye as if he is insane, and then goes on to say, “There’s trouble in the town, you’re upset, go lay down.” In the midst of all the turmoil and uncertainty of life, why talk about love now?
It would seem to me that the writer of Ecclesiastes has a similar perspective towards life, for the lament about vanity, meaninglessness, and futility continues:
What do people gain from all the toil at which they toil under the sun?
A generation goes, and a generation comes,
but the earth remains forever.
The sun rises, and the sun goes down,
and hurries to the place where it rises …All things are wearisome; more than one can express;
the eye is not satisfied with seeing,
or the ear filled with hearing.
What has been is what will be,
and what has been done is what will be done;
there is nothing new under the sun (Ecclesiastes 1:3-9).
Who among us has not had times when we are prone to feel, as does the writer of Ecclesiastes, that all things are wearisome, that what we do will make little difference, that there is nothing new under the sun, that no matter what actions we take, what has happened in the past will only happen again. And yet, is it not frequently at our times of deepest dismay that a ray of hope unexpectedly emerges?
I am convinced that it is this kind of unexpected hope that stands at the heart of the Advent season. The story of Christ’s coming is set, not in an idyllic time when all was well, but in the very midst of a time of fear and uncertainty, an oppressive time, a violent time when the abuse of power frequently held sway. The story stands as a powerful statement that God often acts in ways that make little sense to the world—if indeed God’s ways are even noticed! For the story we celebrate is of God coming among us, not in the midst of splendor and power and treasure, but in an obscure village in an out-of-the-way country among people of insignificance in the eyes of the world. It’s an incredible story, really, one that challenges us to consider the basis of our customary ways of thinking and acting.
Indeed, the Advent message exhorts us to see and hear with new eyes and ears, to begin to grasp the often astounding ways God chooses to work, to take the risk of trusting that life need not be wearisome, that there is indeed something new under the sun in store for us. United Methodist pastor Donald Shelby has written a book labeling Advent The Unsettling Season; in the book he asserts,
We need a season of Advent to interrupt and unsettle us, to give us pause, to make us ponder, and to challenge our intentions and priorities. We need this season because we can be creatures of habit and routine who take each other and our spiritual life for granted. We need this season because we are prone to reduce the mysterious in order to make it manageable and marketable. We need this season as a reminder that one encounter with God through Christ can forever change our life and our world.
The season of Advent, these four weeks of preparation leading up to Christmas, challenge us to live in expectation and hope in the very midst of life’s challenges and struggles and hurts. The season of Advent offers a powerful statement that life need not remain mired in an ever-deepening spiral of decay and injustice and fear. The season of Advent points us to a sometimes unsettling and frequently unpredictable God, a God who dares to assert that new life can indeed emerge out of the uncertainty and brokenness of our day.
We are invited to live in expectation, but it is an expectation that carries a sharp edge. Look with me at our Gospel lesson from Luke, chapter twenty-one. The image is of life coming unglued, chaos threatening, things falling apart. But Jesus goes on to assert that these difficult times shall not have the final word. “Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near” (21:28).
Biblical scholars describe texts like Luke 21 as apocalyptic literature, literature that uses often-frightening images to announce that something new is on the horizon, something new is in the works. When Jesus speaks of the powers of heaven being shaken and a time of fear and foreboding upon us, he is proclaiming that even when it appears that the world is coming apart at the seams, God is nevertheless at work. And ours is to discern God’s hand in the mix of those topsy-turvy events.
The book of Revelation, of course, stands as the highest example of apocalyptic literature in the New Testament. It is a book most of us are prone to avoid, partly because the apocalyptic language makes us uncomfortable, and partly because the book has been taken over by those whom Brethren author Vernard Eller describes as “calendarizers.” You know the ones, those who try to fit the events of John’s vision into current, unfolding events, labeling those with whom they disagree the agents of the Anti-Christ. They do so, even though the Gospel writers make it clear that you and I are not to have that kind of information. “About that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only God,” Jesus tells us in Mark’s Gospel (13:32). And when the disciples ask the Risen Christ when God’s kingdom shall be fully restored, Jesus answers, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that God has set” (Acts 1:7).
Why then have the Gospel writers included apocalyptic images in their writings? Is not the answer found at the conclusion of this morning’s lesson, “Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man” (Luke 21:36). In Mark’s Gospel Jesus urges us, “Be aware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come…. Keep awake” (13:32, 37).
This call to remain alert, to live expectantly, is not so that we may magically escape difficult times, but rather that we will take it as our goal to walk faithfully in the footsteps of Jesus, even in the midst of turbulent times. It is not a matter of seeking to escape out of life, but to enter into genuine life. It is a movement from meaninglessness to purposeful living, from bondage into freedom, from futility into hope.
William Willimon, dean of the chapel at Duke University, reminds us that people who are well fixed, people who are on top of the world—such people don’t talk and think apocalyptically. If our primary concern in life is to live a life of comfort and ease, if we seek to be “successful” at any cost, if our focus is on creating for ourselves stable and predictable lives, we will shy away from this call to experience the sharp edge of expectation. But for many of us—we who are becoming more accustomed than we would like to bombs falling and towers crashing, apocalyptic language is suddenly making sense. And we hear in it the call to alertness, the challenge to live faithfully here and how.
The story is told of the Reformation leader Martin Luther being asked what he would do if he were to discover that the world were coming to an end tomorrow. Luther’s response: “I would plant an apple tree.” It was Luther’s way, I suspect, of asserting that our calling is ever to trust in God’s faithfulness and to seek to be faithful followers of Jesus, day in and day out. Our calling is to embrace the sharp edge of expectant hope, to affirm that, even now, God may well be at work in the world around us.
The season of Advent unsettles us. It serves to remind us that, troubled as the world currently is, there is yet much more in store for us. And as we wait with the sharp edge of expectancy, we do in the conviction that God calls us to be in the business of deepening faith, proclaiming peace, embracing community, welcoming others, and serving our neighbor, all in the compassionate spirit of Jesus. Here and now we are to live as if God’s kingdom, God’s realm, were fully among us.
Let us use these weeks of Advent for reflection—reflecting on the mystery of God’s ways, the wonder of God becoming flesh and living among us, the promise of God’s rule being firmly established. In place of our usual frantic pursuit of gifts to purchase, cards to send, and cookies to bake, I encourage you to take time to ponder God’s incredible gift of Jesus. May this season remind us that our encounter with God through Christ can forever change our life and our world. May we learn to live expectantly and hopefully, for life is not futile, nor is it meant to be wearisome. Instead, life is full of promise and hope, and we can live in the sharp expectation that God does indeed have much more in store for us.
O God, our Creator and Sustainer, you who formed all of creation in love and you who yearn for us to experience life abundant and full, we gather in your midst to celebrate the wondrous gift of Christ Jesus our Redeeming Lord. As we embark upon this season of Advent, may it be for us a time of eager anticipation.
O come, o come, Immanuel, God-with-us. Come and fill our lives with purpose and wholeness. Bid envy, strife, and quarrels cease. Guide us in paths of peace and compassion and loving kindness. Grant us wisdom to discern your ways of living and loving and serving in the world around us.
O come, o come, Immanuel, teach us to be your servants and peacemakers and reconcilers, messengers of the love that Jesus proclaimed in life and in death and in life anew.
O come, o come, Immanuel, granting us eyes to see as you see, hearts to love as you love, hands to serve as you have first served us.
Hear us now, holy God, as we remember those in special need of your compassionate touch. We hold before you the poor and the homeless, the broken and the forgotten, and we pray for the healing waters of justice and righteousness to flow through us and beyond us to embrace all those who have been pushed to the margins of life.
God of grace and mercy, hear us now as we pray for those among us in need of your healing mercies …
O come, o come, Immanuel, bring peace to our troubled and often disheartened world. We pray for Iraq, where uncertainty and fear and violence are far too familiar elements of daily living. Bring healing to the land, Lord God, and keep us mindful of the tragic loss of life and hope that warfare brings.
O God of hope, we anticipate anew the promise of Christ’s birth, the gift of Immanuel, God-with-us, born in our hearts and in our world. In the name and Spirit of Jesus we pray. Amen.