Second Sunday of Advent
Advent 2 Year B
December 6, 2020
Isaiah 40: 1-11
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my strength and my Redeemer. Amen.
This year, our Thanksgiving, like most of you, was very low key. It was simply the 5 of us at the dinner table, our immediate family, plus the 2 dogs at our feet. This was very different than in years’ past when, with over 20 people, the Thanksgiving table, there wasn’t even an inch of elbow room.
But like many of you, we still connected with the extended family on Thanksgiving, this year using a large “group text.” At first the texts were simply Thanksgiving greetings. But then someone asked about everyone’s favorite Thanksgiving memory, and things like our family’s version of “Turkey Gate” came up – which was when the precious turkey leftovers, meant for the next day’s lunch, were eaten by a “certain someone” in the middle of the night. Another person remembered a dish full of broccoli accidentally spilled down the wall and onto the floor. There was also that time when the 25 lb. turkey had been in the over for 4 hrs. before someone noticed the oven wasn’t even turned on! Other family favorites included gingerbread houses, champagne punch, a family outing on the Polar Express, sitting by the fire pit, and simply sharing those rare times when 4 generations are all under the same roof. Sharing these stories of Thanksgivings-past made even THIS year a special one. Yes, we were apart, but the stories still connected us, generation to generation.
This morning’s first reading from Isaiah offers a similar feel. Isaiah is actually writing 600 years before Jesus’ birth, and the Jewish people have been exiled to Babylon. They have been suffering for years and years, separated from their promised land, their religious rituals and relics, and yet the prophet is texting stories of God’s faithfulness and comfort.
“Lift up your voice with strength, O Jerusalem, herald of good tidings!
God will feed his flock like a shepherd; gather the lambs in his arms, and lead them like the mother sheep.”
Then 600 years later, as we heard in our Gospel of Mark, John the Baptist is also re-telling the stories of the past. He tells the people in the wilderness,
“as it is written in the prophet Isaiah, “See I am sending my messenger to prepare your way.”
Their time in exile – or to put it in modern language - their time in lockdown - has not been without hope: “Comfort, O comfort my people.” The Hebrew people remained hopeful, thanks to the stories which grounded and connected them, as did those in the wilderness with John the Baptist.
Even Jesus knew something about exile. Remember how after his baptism, the Spirit drove him into the wilderness for 40 days? There, he was hungry, vulnerable, and alone – and what do you think he relied on? He relied on the stories from the past, God’s words from the prophets and the psalms. Even in exile, Jesus found comfort in God alone.
Exile. It is not a word we encounter very often here. In fact, when I teach our Confirmation students the history of the Nicene Creed, they are always amazed when I tell them that Athanasius, a 4th century Bishop, was in exile for 17 out of his 45 years as bishop simply because he believed that Jesus was not only fully human but also fully divine!
Thankfully, here, we don’t have to worry necessarily about being truly exiled for our beliefs, but believe me, we are all experiencing a sort of exile right now due to COVID19. Exile can happen in any number of ways. It can mean being forced from one’s home, but it can also be the experience of being forced from community life; a synonym being “displacement.” And is no doubt that COVID has displaced all of us from the lives we lived just 9 months ago. I mean, here we are, outside, in 35 degree weather, exiled from our church building by this invisible virus. And of course, other realities can also cause “exile.” Age, disability, poverty, race. All of these cause displacement, and cause people to be vulnerable, lost, helpless, and isolated . . . all symptoms of exile.
But here’s the Good News. The Gospel truth. Whether it was the Israelites, who were accompanied by God in the wilderness through clouds and fire, water and manna, or whether it was Jesus, who was tended to by the angels at his side, or whether it’s us, who remain hopeful by leaning on one another and our faith, ALL of us were or are practicing a holy waiting in exile. And as the lights on our Advent wreath grow brighter, week by week, we are reminded that the light of Jesus dispels the darkness and leads us home to God’s comforting love. “God has an ageless love affair with creation,” Albert Holtz, the Benedictine Monk whose book we’re reading this Advent, reminds us.
“Comfort, O comfort my people,” God cries out through the prophet Isaiah, and in the wilderness, we are to experience what life is like with no comfort other than God. God who provides, changes, shapes and moves. Who is ever-present in the wilderness, offering grace and Love far beyond what we can imagine.
The other evening, Bunker and I were watching the movie Apollo 13. And one of my favorite scenes is when the news reporters are suddenly interested in the danger of the astronauts’ situation, and decide to air an old interview with Jim Lovell (played by Tom Hanks). The reporter asks him, “Has there ever been a specific instance in an airplane emergency when you were afraid?”
Lovell responds, “Well, yes, there was this one time, at night, in combat conditions, when the airline carrier where I was supposed to land had to darken all of its lights. My radar had jammed, and I was looking down at a big, black ocean. When I flipped on my map light, suddenly: zap. Everything shorted out and all of my instruments were gone. My lights were gone. I was running out of fuel. I was desperate . . . And then I looked down. There in the darkness was this green trail, like a long carpet being laid out right beneath me. And it was the algae. It was that phosphorescent stuff that gets churned up in the wake of a big ship. And it was it was leading me home. And you know? If my cockpit lights hadn't shorted out, there'd be no way I would have ever seen that.” Lovell goes on to say, “You never know what events can transpire to get you home.”
Comfort, O Comfort my people. Generation after generation of God’s people have experienced exile, just as we are experiencing it right now. We are part of the on-going biblical story of God’s love. Nothing is the same, except for the fact that God is here. In the air we breathe. On the path we walk. Even out here in this wintery weather. We find comfort in the stories of generations past, and these are the stories that will help generations in the future to endure displacement and loss. Comfort is part of recovery. And these lights on our Advent wreath are leading us home, just like the light of the algae led Jim Lovell home.
We are traveling home to Jesus’ heart this Christmas. And yes, we will tell THAT story, the story of Jesus’ birth, generation after generation, whether we are together or displaced – and regardless of our pandemic exile, we will be home. Amen.
