Joel D. Kline
Highland Avenue Church of the Brethren
December 5, 2004
The Second Sunday of Advent
Surely one of the most famous speeches of the twentieth century occurred on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., in August of 1963, delivered by Martin Luther King, Jr. Part of the noted March on Washington, King cried out words of hope: “I have a dream …” A dream of justice. A dream in which all persons are held in dignity and respect. A dream of freedom and of new possibilities for the future. “Let freedom ring,” cried Martin Luther King, from the mountains of the east to the plains of the Midwest. “Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi, from every mountainside, let freedom ring!”
There is power in our dreams, for they frequently carry images that guide us into the future, that in fact may well give shape to our future. I’m not just talking about those dreams that occur when we are sleeping, but even more, our eyes-wide-open dreams. Seems to me that dreams spoken of in the Scriptures most often fit into this eyes-wide-open perspective.
You will remember a number of dreams connected with the Christmas story. According to Matthew, when Joseph hears of Mary’s pregnancy, he determines to sever their relationship quietly so that Mary suffer as little public disgrace as possible. But, says Matthew, “just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, ‘Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit” (Matthew 1:20). Whether or not Joseph was sleeping for this dream is not the issue; what is significant is that Joseph received it as an eyes-wide-open message, filling him with courage to move forward into the future in spite of the whisperings and innuendoes that no doubt would follow the timing of the birth of Jesus.
A number of subsequent dreams fill Matthew’s remembrances of the birth of Jesus. The mysterious magi who approach King Herod asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?” are later warned in a dream, after finding Jesus and his family, not to return to Herod. In a consequent dream Joseph encounters yet another angel, this time warning him to take his family and flee to Egypt. And finally, after Herod’s death, Joseph receives word in yet another dream that the family may now return to Israel.
Even more, the Hebrew prophets of old found themselves driven by eyes-wide-open dreams. Theirs were dreams, much like Martin Luther King’s famous dream, that went well beyond one-time instruction to a vision of the ways in which God would have us live together in peace and harmony. Likely you remember a number of the powerful dreams of the prophet Isaiah, including this one from chapter 2:
[God] shall judge between the nations,
and shall arbitrate for many peoples;
they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more (2:4).
This morning’s lesson speaks of the prophet’s vision and dream of the peace and harmony that will follow the coming of a new ruler from the stump of Jesse:
The wolf shall lie down with the lamb,
the leopard shall lie down with the kid,
the calf and the lion and the fatling together,
and a little child shall lead them.
The cow and the bear shall graze,
their young shall lie down together;
and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.
The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp,
and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den.
They will not hurt or destroy on all my mountain;
for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord
as the waters cover the sea (11:6-9).
Isaiah also dreams of the day when Israel shall be given a new name, a new identity:
The nations shall see your vindication, and all the kings your glory;
and you shall be called by a new name that the mouth of the Lord will give.
You shall be a crown of beauty in the hand of the Lord,
and a royal diadem in the hand of your God.
You shall no more be termed Forsaken …
but you shall be called My Delight is in Her…(62:2-5).
And then the dream of God’s new creation:
For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth;
the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind …
I will rejoice in Jerusalem,
and delight in my people;
no more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it,
or the cry of distress (65:17-19).
The prophet dreams repeatedly an eyes-wide-open dream of that day when God’s realm, God’s kingdom shall completely unfold among us, and indeed, among all creation. Such dreams, thank God, are not easily put aside; they are not easily shaken. In the aftermath of King’s leadership of that 1963 March on Washington, Time magazine chose him as its Man of the Year. Asked later whether he was satisfied with the progress being made in the movement toward racial justice and concern for the poor, King responded that we can never be satisfied until the entire dream becomes reality. And is that not the very nature of dreams? As people of faith, we dare never rest content with business as usual, for the dream of life in the kingdom of God is ever before us. We dare never make too easy a peace with the existence of injustice and brokenness, of selfishness and sin, of racism and greed.
African American poet Langston Hughes questions in one of his poems, “What happens to a dream deferred?…Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?…Or does it explode?” Dreams long squelched by injustice may well explode in anger and rage, but I suspect that, for most of us, the far greater danger is of our dreams drying up like raisins in the sun. Is there any greater tragedy than those whose lives have become little more than mere existence, their dreams long since petrified and forgotten?
John the Baptist was one who would not allow his dream to be shattered. It was a dream of a coming Messiah, the One who would set life aright, the One who would open the way to abundant joy and peace and hope and life. And to keep that dream alive, the Baptist shouted a message of repentance. Biblical repentance is not simply a matter of remorse for past sins and shortcomings; much more, it is a turning around, the taking on of a new set of values, a new perspective towards life, a new way of living. Even more, repentance is a matter of embracing a whole new identity as the people of God, recognizing that something radically new is unfolding and that you and I have significant roles to play as participants in the story.
It is a story that taxes the imagination—this story of God taking human flesh, of God becoming one with us. Who but God would choose to enter human life in an insignificant village in an out-of-the-way corner of occupied Palestine, born to a humble mother who, in the eyes of the world, displays questionable virtue? The birth is heralded, not to the movers and shakers of the day, but to a lowly group of shepherds. It’s a story that demands eyes of faith, a story that prods us to see what most do not see, a story that challenges us to envision what few would envision. And that is what repentance enables us to do, to see life with fresh eyes, to notice what others ignore. Henri Nouwen has something similar in mind when writing some years ago in Gracias!, a journal of his experiences in Latin America. Asserts Nouwen,
The small child of Bethlehem, the unknown young man of Nazareth, the rejected preacher, the naked man on the cross, he asks for my full attention. The work of our salvation takes place in the midst of a world that continues to shout, scream, and overwhelm us with its claims and promises. But the promise is hidden in the shoot that sprouts from the stump, a shoot that hardly anyone notices.
And that takes us back to the ancient prophet who yearned for the coming of a new ruler upon whom the Spirit of the Lord would rest, one who would rule with wisdom and understanding, with righteousness and justice and faithfulness. This ruler emerges from the root of Jesse, and yet when he comes, hardly anyone notices. Perhaps it is because they no longer heed their deepest dreams; perhaps they no longer trust that God is alive and at work in our world, leveling the mountains of prejudice and fear and suspicion while lifting high the lowly and the broken, prodding us to consider the ways of peace.
The story is told of a youngster learning to play the piano whose mother, eager to encourage a love for music in him, took him to a Paderewski concert. Soon after the mother and son were seated, the mother spotted a friend a little distance away and walked down the aisle to greet her. The time got a little too long for the youngster, and he wandered off, exploring the wonders of the concert hall, eventually making his way through a door clearly marked NO ADMITTANCE.
When the house lights dimmed, the mother returned to her seat, only to find her son missing. At that moment the curtains on the stage parted, and to her shock, there was her son seated at the keyboard of the impressive Steinway. Oblivious to the crowd, he began to pick out the notes to “Twinkle, twinkle, little star.” Just then Paderewski came on stage, quickly moved to the piano and whispered in the boy’s ear, “Don’t quit. Keep playing.” Leaning over the boy, the concert pianist reached down with his left hand and began filling in a bass part. Soon his right arm reached around the other side of the boy and added another part. Together the old master and the young novice transformed a frightening situation into a wonderfully creative moment. The audience was captivated.
Just so, is not God able to work through our sometimes-feeble efforts, wrapping arms around us, urging us on, transforming our work into something beautiful? Indeed, God equips us to dream new dreams; God taxes our imaginations, prodding us to envision far more than we ever thought possible. Is this not the power of the Advent season, that we set aside time to consider anew God’s gracious gifts, time for wonder and amazement, time for mystery and growth, time to dream with eyes-wide-open. And the promise is that God is with us, encouraging, upholding, challenging, renewing, recreating us, that we might dream new dreams and imagine new possibilities. Possibilities of peace, possibilities of compassionate love and servanthood, possibilities of new life.
Sisters and brothers, to us a child of hope is born. Let us take on eyes of faith, that we might see life anew, giving thanks for the One who brings hope and peace, joy and love beyond imagination. Amen.
Come, Lord Jesus, come. Immanuel, God-with-us, come. Come in all your fullness, bringing God’s kingdom here on earth, in us and among us. Come, bringing hope to a world far more familiar with despair and fear and brokenness and pain. Come, teaching us to dream new dreams, to envision new levels of love, compassion, peace, and grace in our relationships with one another and with the larger world.
Come, Lord Jesus, for we are waiting, hoping, yearning for something more in life. Come, Immanuel, be with us and grant us the power, the strength, the forgiveness, the renewal of your gracious Spirit. Come, Lord Jesus, speak words of peace to us—peace in our hearts, and courage to be peacemakers and reconcilers in a divided world.
Come, Lord Jesus, fill our hearts with joy. Take us beyond the routines of life, the materialism of secular Christmas celebrations, the hustle and bustle of tasks to accomplish, and grant us instead times of quiet joy, times of reflection, times of active waiting.
God-with-us, hear us now as we hold before you those with special need of your healing embrace. We pray for …
Our hearts are broken, O God, as we recall the continued violence and warfare in Iraq and other places around the world, as we remember the growing numbers of hungry and homeless in our midst, and as we acknowledge the fears and hurts that bind our own hearts. Come, Lord Jesus, heal and refresh us, empower and embolden us, that we might walk in paths of discipleship. We pray in the name and Spirit of the One whose coming we anticipate anew, Jesus the Christ. Amen.