Something Better Than Disappointment

Luke 2:25-38
December 27, 2020
William G. Carter

Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this man was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying, “Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” And the child’s father and mother were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.”

There was also a prophet, Anna the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was of a great age, having lived with her husband seven years after her marriage, then as a widow to the age of eighty-four. She never left the temple but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day. At that moment she came and began to praise God and to speak about the child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.

This is a poignant story. For all the beauty of Christmas, there is also pain. For all the joy and delight, there is suffering and loss. For all the happiness of the holiday, it is frequently accompanied by disappointment. And we know this, even though we would rather not talk about it.

I love Christmas, as you do too. The songs lift my soul. The story of Christmas never fails to evoke wonder. Yet the plain truth is this: every time I put up a string of white twinkle lights and plug them in, one of the bulbs has already burned out – even if the string of lights is brand new.

I have come to concur that’s the way Christmas is. The Light has broken into the darkness. In neighborhoods like mine, all the houses are lit up. And I deeply believe what the Gospel of John announced on Christmas Eve. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.  Yet there’s still darkness.

The scriptures say that when Jesus was born, there was an old man Simeon, and an old woman Anna, and they were hanging on until they could see the Messiah. Luke introduces them and dismisses them in the same scene. We don’t know much about these senior citizens, except they were hovering around the Jerusalem Temple waiting, praying, fasting, hoping to see the Messiah before they even learn his name.

Of the two, Simeon is the more excitable. He waits for all the mothers to present their children and offer them to the covenant of God. No doubt he frightened all the mothers. Here comes the old man, wobbling up with his walking stick. He peeks into every one of the blue blankets to ask, “Is it a boy? Could this be the one?”

All the fathers stand by, shifting from one foot to the other, worried if they can remember the right words to speak when the priest comes along. Here comes old Simeon, not staying in his lane, going from one family to the next, to say, “Is it a boy? Can I see your boy?” The fathers say, “Get away from him, old man, you’re scaring his mother.”

But Simeon persists. He means well because he hopes deeply. Somehow God has whispered into his ear that Simeon will not see death until he sees the Messiah. He will see him, although that means one more light will flicker and go out.

For all its candlelight and good cheer, Christmas can be a difficult holiday in the best of years. We are told to be happy when plenty of us are worn out. We are encouraged to look up when seasonal shadows and empty seats at the table are pulling us down. Fifty-five years ago, Charlie Brown confessed how he felt hollow during the season, and for good reason, that cartoon has never gone off the air. For there is appropriate joy and it’s entangled with sorrow.

This year, of course, is so much harder. We have pulled back from one another to stay well. Meanwhile the unseen virus infects and claims some of the people we love. If you crossed the state line this week, you saw the signs requiring a two-week quarantine. If you sneaked through anyway, the threat of illness is chasing over your shoulder. Even if you unwrapped everything you wanted this Christmas, there is the whiff of disappointment. “Hindsight is 20-20,” some have said, and we are ready to put 2020 in the rear-view mirror.  

I guess that’s why I have frequently been moved by the story of Simeon and Anna. Jesus is born and it’s not instant success. The Messiah has come and there’s plenty of work yet to do. At its best, Christmas is a magic moment, but it’s not instant transformation.

Simeon pulls back the next blue blanket, sees the infant child, and the Holy Spirit whispers, “This is the One. Here he is.” It’s all he can do to keep back the tears of joy. After so many centuries of longing, all the balancing of patience and impatience, the Christ has come. The old saint breaks into song. With four of the biggest words in his vocabulary, Simeon declares what he has seen: peace, salvation, revelation, glory. The storyteller tells us that Joseph and Mary are speechless.

But then Simeon offers a mixed blessing to the parents. Here is how somebody translates his words:

This child marks both the failure and the recovery of many in Israel,

A figure misunderstood and contradicted – the pain of a sword-thrust through you –

But the rejection will force honesty, as God reveals who they really are. (The Message)

The baby Jesus has come. He is the Promised Messiah. The heart of his work will be to reveal what kind of work in our own souls must be undertaken. He will show us what the world cannot provide. He will invite us to choose between our illusions and that package of those four great words: peace, salvation, revelation, glory. If we make that choice, it will require some hard work for our souls.

I don’t know what Christmas it was, but it was sometime in my early adolescence. I cannot date it, but it must have been the year when I opened all the packages and realized something was missing. It wasn’t something on my list; I’m sure of that. I have been blessed to spend all my years within a family that provided everything I wanted and gave me more than I needed, and I know that’s not the case for everybody.

But that year, I sat in a pile of ribbons and wrapping paper and felt like I wanted to cry. For all the Yuletide abundance, something was missing. I didn’t want to let it show. Have you ever felt like that? Around you, there’s happy laughter, shouts of excitement. You feel that, but there’s also an absence. What is it? What I was missing?

I ask because the feeling has returned on other occasions. Not just in this horrible year of covid-19, but in other times when loved ones could still gather and we were free to celebrate however we wanted. What was missing? What was it?

And I sat down, reflected the story of Simeon, and suddenly the Holy Spirit whispered into my ear what we are often missing. In a word, consolation. It’s the sense of a settled heart, the dispersing of anxiety, the sufficiency of grace. Simeon’s life work was to anticipate the “consolation of Israel,” the abiding sense that all will be OK, that what you will be provided will be enough.

This year, if you unwrapped socks and underwear, someone thought they were a necessity. If you received a good book or a great toy, it may be a sweet diversion for a long, hard winter. But true consolation comes with the deep assurance there’s something invisible beyond the external stuff – and this something invisible will hold your life and the lives of a lot of other people.  Call it “the consolation of Israel.”

There was a fascinating article about Theodor Geisel, the poet known by the name “Doctor Seuss.” He confessed how he became a curmudgeon after he became famous. Geisel was living in an overpriced beach house in a swanky suburb of San Diego. Every children’s book he wrote hit the top of the charts, something to be sold every autumn to become a Christmas best-seller. He grumbled how his publisher had turned him into a commodity, something to be marketed and sold. Doctor Seuss came to hate it, even though the money was good.

As he scowled in a dark mood, it suddenly sparked his imagination. By gazing into the mirror of his soul, Theodor Geisel created his most enduring poetic character, the Grinch. [1]You know the story. And if I may quote from the moment of the Grinch’s awakening:

Every Who down in Whoville, the tall and the small,
Was singing! Without any presents at all!
He HADN'T stopped Christmas from coming! IT CAME!
Somehow or other, it came just the same!
And the Grinch, with his grinch-feet ice-cold in the snow,
Stood puzzling and puzzling: "How could it be so?"
"It came without ribbons! It came without tags!"
"It came without packages, boxes or bags!"
And he puzzled three hours, till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before!
"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store."
"Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!" 

 (Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, New York: Random House, 1957)

Of course it does. Christmas means consolation. There is something beyond what we can see. There is a Child born to Mary and circumcised into God’s covenant. But he will grow up to do more than build furniture in the family wood shop. This is the One “destined for the falling and the rising of many.” He reveals the deepest hungers of the human heart and prepares a banquet in the presence of his own enemies.

This is the Christ, who has been born into our world to reveal God’s true dominion and to call us toward it.

   In the midst of all our disappointments, he is Wonderful Counselor.

   When we sense our limitations, he is Mighty God and Everlasting Father.

   When our hearts tremble, he is Prince of Peace.   

   And when we discover in him what the world cannot offer, the promise of the prophet rings true:

“His authority shall grow continually,

 and there shall be endless peace for the throne of David and his kingdom.” (Isaiah 9:6-7)

Trust the Christ and leave all things into his hands. For he is the consolation of Christmas.

(c) William G. Carter. 

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[1] Brad Witter, “Who was Dr. Seuss’ Inspiration for the Grinch? Himself!” 1 December 2020, https://www.biography.com/news/dr-seuss-grinch-inspiration  See also “You’re a Keen One, Mister Grinch” - https://www.huffpost.com/entry/the-grinch-dr-seuss-christmas_n_5fe0d3f7c5b60d416344abbb

A Defiant Light - Christmas 2020

A Defiant Light
John 1:1-14
Christmas Eve
December 24, 2020

On a night like this, sometimes we open the Bible to hear what we have always heard. So the Gospel of Luke is opened and the story of the birth of Jesus is released again into the air. We expect that. We depend on that. This is not any other evening. This is the festival of incarnation.

Sometimes we open the Bible and an unexpected star begins to shine. Perhaps it is the darkness of our circumstance that sharpens our vision and opens our hearts. That's what happened to me. I opened the first chapter of John's Gospel and the good news is there: "The light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it."

Let's affirm how shining the light is a daring thing to do. The year that I began my ministry, the  government of South Africa banned many of the Christmas celebrations in that country. The country was in turmoil and the authorities worried about an outbreak of joy.

So "Joy to the World" was squelched. "Silent Night" was silenced. All the faithful were told not to come but rather stay home. Not only did the authorities declare the songs were too emotional, but "candles have become revolutionary symbols."[1] That's a direct quote: candles were "revolutionary symbols." In spite of the crackdown, the candles were lit.

You and I are living through a different kind of crisis. It's a crisis with multiple layers, and the most obvious is an international virus that rages out of control. Tonight is not the time to fuss about public health restrictions, especially if they are reasonable ways to protect our families and love our neighbors. No, tonight is the night to shine the light.

John sings these Christmas words at the beginning of his Gospel story. With this extraordinary poem, he states the best way to understand the coming of Jesus to the world is as light coming into darkness.

Darkness? We know the darkness is real. It lurks in the crevasses of the soul. It stirs in the shadows of every human assembly. Darkness is irrational evil that destroys life. Darkness lies behind our willful desire to refuse kindness and to reject what is true. When God created the heavens and the earth, there was darkness. It was in the shapeless "void" of what God did not create. 

Then God said, "Let there be light." Light reveals what the darkness wishes to hide. Light illumines what we ignore in our shadows. Light inspires the telling of truth and the cultivation of life. Every day, darkness says, "Turn out those lights!" Don't let the secrets be told. Don't let the truth be revealed. Don't let the destructive impulses be seen. In spite of it all, the light comes. God announces Light, sends Light -- and this sets up the great conflict of creation.

We know the story of Jesus. He did not stay as a child in the manger. He grew up. He was instructed in the love and justice of God. He opened human minds, cured human illnesses, healed broken hearts, and rebuilt human community. Precisely because he was so good at shining the light, the darkness tried to snuff him out. In the language of John's poem, to "overcome" him. It worked until the darkness was cracked open.

I never noticed how John mixes up his tenses. "The darkness did not overcome it" - that's past tense, an historical event. God's good news comes in the present tense, "The light shines in the darkness," which is a Resurrection reality. John sings of resurrection and crucifixion in the same sentence. Yet he reminds us of two truths.

The first is that the darkness has not gone away. Surely this is why the world behaves as it does. There is ignorance and foolishness in a world that resists illumination. There is mistrust and mistreatment in a world addicted to fear. There is hostility and abuse in a world ashamed of its own shame. The darkness is real. So John says, "This is the crisis, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil (John 3:19)."

And yet the second truth is that the Light has come. Or as the next carol declares, "The Lord is come." The Light is here. The Light was extinguished on the cross of Jesus but it will not go out again. The Light shines now and invites us out of the darkness, away from the shadows of death, to live abundantly and to shine as brightly as God empowers us.

This is why a true observance of Christmas always has an edge to it. The Light defies the darkness. As G.K. Chesterton once said of Christmas, "A religion that defies the world should have a feast that defies the weather." You have heard it said, "The weather outside is frightening." But I say to you Jesus Christ is born. And he lives. Oh, he lives!

So that's why we offer a Christmas Eve service to you. We can't gather as a crowd this year. Only a few of us can safely come to witness to the joy and peace which is offered to all. It is our way to affirm God comes in spite of the darkness. Jesus is born regardless of who sits upon the world's cardboard throne. The Spirit of God has the freedom to reach all of us without the constraints of an international pandemic.

We do this to declare what the scriptures testify: that we are precious enough to God to be rescued by him. That we are honored enough by Jesus for him to be birthed to live among us. That we are sufficiently available to God's Spirit that our own spirits can be enlivened and we can be empowered by the music from heaven far greater than our own.

Trust the good news, wherever you are: "The light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it." Let the good word sink into your souls and rejoice.

Merry Christmas!

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] See, for instance, https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1985-12-25-mn-21091-story.html    

New Life in a Dead Stump

Isaiah 11:1-9
Advent 4
December 20, 2020
William G. Carter


A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. 

The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him,

   the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might,

   the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord. 

His delight shall be in the fear of the Lord.

He shall not judge by what his eyes see, or decide by what his ears hear;

   but with righteousness he shall judge the poor, and decide with equity for the meek of the earth;

he shall strike the earth with the rod of his mouth,

   and with the breath of his lips he shall kill the wicked. 

Righteousness shall be the belt around his waist, and faithfulness the belt around his loins. 

The wolf shall live 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 holy mountain;

   for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.

 

This summer, the opening line of Isaiah’s familiar poem took on a whole new meaning for me. Just over a year ago, we had five locust trees cut down in our front yard. This mini forest reached tall into the sky. Locust wood is dense, which means the roots that crept above ground broke two lawnmower blades. After noticing some significant branches no longer bore leaves, and after picking up broken branches after windstorms, the judgement was pronounced: those trees had to go.

Phone calls were made. Bids were received. We balanced best price with scope of work, and the arborist was booked. Within a short period of time, the trees were cut to the ground and the wood was hauled away. Topsoil was spread and grass was planted. An over-ground area of the property was now improved. Late this spring, after extra funds had been saved, we called a man with a stump grinder and he took what was left down to the ground.

Mission accomplished, or so I thought. One day in mid-summer, I was on my way out to the mailbox and noticed a sprig of new life growing where all had been cut off. It had popped up in the middle of what was left from the largest of the five stumps. I was shocked at the audacity of new life, bursting forth where it wasn’t expected, much less wanted.  

I thought the tree was gone. When the wind would blow, it would creak and groan. One branch broke off and almost took out the power line. When the weather turned cold, that tree would shiver and shudder so hard that all the leaves would drop everywhere. My mother-in-law called it “a dirty tree.” So we took down to the ground. A few months later, new life happened. Resurrection happened. The old, dead stump was given a future.

What a metaphor for the generosity of God!

Old Isaiah promised, “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.” When it looked like all was finished, God did something new. Not only is God the original Creator, but God is also the re-Creator. When life as we knew it was cut off, something new is given.

The prophet puts these words into the air at a very dark time in his country’s history. The Assyrian Empire had invaded and ravaged the land. There was widespread destruction. The virus of despair was contagious. Isaiah saw all that was wrong with the world. In other passages, he details what happens when goodness is twisted out of shape by human selfishness. He knew what violence is committed when people rebel against God and God’s ways.

 

In short, his land looked like a forest reduced to a field of stumps. His people’s future was chopped down to the ground. There was nothing left. Nothing at all. And then God said, “Look again, Isaiah.” He saw a small green sprout beginning to grow in the middle of one of those stumps.

 

“A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse.” Who was Jesse? Jesse was the father of King David, the greatest king they could remember. But David and his lineage were gone. Cut down. Largely forgotten. Until God says, “Look again, Isaiah.” There is a new branch growing out of those underground roots.

 

This is one of the great Messiah passages of scripture. The prophet describes the Anointed One, the Coming One who was filled with the Spirit of the Lord. He would make everything right! So naturally, everybody looked for a national leader – a new king – a politician.

 

The scholar John Hayes tells us that the “shoot coming out of the stump” was widely believed to be King Ahaz, also known by his given name, Jeroahaz II. He assumed the throne of Judah at age twenty and ruled for sixteen years. All the nation’s hopes were pinned on him. The people hoped for a true reign of peace, prosperity that actually did trickle down to the poor, and a new beginning for the entire nation. That’s what they wanted.

 

Guess what? That wasn’t what happened. Ahaz was a disaster. There was no Holy Spirit in him, especially if you read the accounts of Second Kings. Ahaz was a despicable chap, prone to pagan practices, and stealing money from the temple treasury to buy off the emperor of Assyria. Not the sort of behavior to get you good marks when they write down your story in the Bible.

 

So Isaiah’s vision remained inscribed in the scroll. It remained there for seven hundred years until Jesus appeared. Some perceived the Spirit of God rested on him in astonishing ways. Wherever he went, whatever he did, life was renewed with vitality. People wondered if this could be the new kind of king, the One different from all the other kings we have ever known. We could trace his line back to Jesse. In him, God created something new where life had been reduced to stumps. 

This is what we have seen in Jesus. This is what we still hope for. The promised redeemer of Judah will restore and rebalance broken relationships. There will no longer be a wall between the weak and the strong. There will no longer be a gulf between the poor and the rich. There will no longer be a chain between predator and victim. The Messiah will break down everything that divides us. He will destroy everything that hurts us. He will give everything he has – including his life - to establish a New Creation.

Sometimes we see the signs of what God is making possible: the wolf and the lamb, together. The weak and the strong, together. The predator and the victim, together. And at the center of it all, a little child shall lead them.

A little child. This past Thursday marked the one-year anniversary of a successful liver transplant in Pittsburgh. The organ recipient was a little boy named Rowan, nicknamed Baby Rowboat. His dad is a Presbyterian minister, a classmate of mine, a fellow old duffer. When Rowan was born a couple of years ago, he had some medical challenges including a liver that didn’t function well. His parents worried about losing him before a transplant could happen.

But then God opened a door. The family flew from Dallas to Pittsburgh, stayed for a few months in a Ronald McDonald house while little Baby Rowboat had successful surgery. The surgery and recovery didn’t all happen in a straight line, and rarely does. They are all grateful for every day, week, and now a year that they have enjoy together.

The miracle was what has happened in my friend Todd, his father. “I knew all about love,” he says, “but my heart has been broken open even wider. I watch that little guy toddle around the house. He gathers all the garbage cans in the house and empties them into one, and we crack up laughing. He’s an old soul in a toddler’s body, quick with a hug, sympathetic when his brother skins his knee. In his innocence, he shows us how to live and love.” Indeed, a little child shall lead them, especially when it looked like life might be lost.

I mull over what Isaiah’s vision would be for a covid-19 lockdown. Are there ways when relationships can be built when we must keep safe distances? Can we reach out beyond what separates us to have our own hearts opened? Is it possible for wolf and lamb to dwell together?

I was pondering this over yesterday morning’s coffee when there was a ruckus on the front porch. I put on my mask, opened the front door, and there was a friend delivering three large boxes on the porch. “That one’s heavy,” he pointed. “What do we have here?”

He was dropping off seven hundred fifty pairs of brand-new socks. His nephew owns a started a manufacturing company that donates a pair of socks for every pair sold. To date, forty million pairs have been given to charity, and 750 were on my front porch. It seems my very generous wife offered to help distribute them to families in need, homeless shelters, and anybody else whose feet might be cold.

I asked, “Do we know any of the people receiving these socks?” She said, “Of course not. That’s why we are helping to distribute the socks.” It’s all about building relationships: cow and bear, lion and ox, all living side by side. The Messiah makes this kind of new life possible.

And then I was wondering what else Isaiah could see: The nursing child shall play over the hole of the snake, and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den. Sounds terrifying. What does that mean?

My sister tipped me off to a story from our little hometown that made The New York Times and Good Morning America. Just seventy miles north of us, forty-one inches of snow fell from the sky in a single day. The governor closed the roads, but Kevin Kresen was fifteen miles from home. It was about midnight and the winter storm was fiercely pounding around him. Kevin’s engine squealed, a serpentine belt slid off, and he lost his power steering. The car veered to the right and toppled into in a ditch.

 

Kevin was trapped as the snow continued to drop at four inches an hour. A snowplow did not see him and piled more snow on top. He dialed 911, but the calls kept dropping and the snow kept falling. He dialed again, started to give a message, and the call dropped again. Emergency personnel went searching but couldn’t find him.

Ten hours later, Officer Jason Cawley from the State Police tried to narrow down the search area. He climbed through snowbanks, plodded through drifts. Investigating what looked like a rack of mailboxes, he discovered the windshield of Kevin’s car. A passerby stopped to help him dig, and they were able to lift Kevin out of the window. Rather than wait for an ambulance, Officer Cawley immediately took the man to the hospital. Another ninety minutes would have been fatal, but Mr. Kresen is going to make it.[1]

 

So what kind of world is it when someone saves the life of a stranger? It’s the kind of world the Messiah wishes to renew, a world where all are precious, and none are lost. Even in the face of real danger, each person is regarded as a treasure to be sought and rescued. In this, the prophet’s dream is fulfilled. Nobody is hurt or destroyed on all God’s holy mountain.

 

Friends, this is more than pretty poetry. It is a vision of what the coming of the Messiah makes possible. It is the sign that light is stronger than darkness and love is stronger than death.

 

As we approach the last few days before Christmas, let’s consider what each of us might do to live in the light of Isaiah’s vision. This is a difficult and demanding season for so many. Families are separated and sequestered. Traditions are disrupted. A lot of us are feeling blue.

 

But as tough of things are, this is never the end, not with the goodness of a God of life. What seems like the end is only the beginning. The Messiah is already among us, hidden from the world, but known by those who love him. And in his love, they love one another.

 

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved

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[1] https://www.nytimes.com/2020/12/18/nyregion/snow-storm-rescue.html

Repairing the Ruins

Isaiah 61:1-11
Advent 3
December 13, 2020

William G. Carter

The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; to provide for those who mourn in Zion— to give them a garland instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit. They will be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, to display his glory.

 

They shall build up the ancient ruins, they shall raise up the former devastations; they shall repair the ruined cities, the devastations of many generations. Strangers shall stand and feed your flocks, foreigners shall till your land and dress your vines; but you shall be called priests of the Lord, you shall be named ministers of our God; you shall enjoy the wealth of the nations, and in their riches you shall glory. Because their shame was double, and dishonor was proclaimed as their lot, therefore they shall possess a double portion; everlasting joy shall be theirs. For I the Lord love justice, I hate robbery and wrongdoing; I will faithfully give them their recompense, and I will make an everlasting covenant with them. Their descendants shall be known among the nations, and their offspring among the peoples; all who see them shall acknowledge that they are a people whom the Lord has blessed.

 

I will greatly rejoice in the Lord, my whole being shall exult in my God; for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation, he has covered me with the robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom decks himself with a garland, and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels. For as the earth brings forth its shoots, and as a garden causes what is sown in it to spring up, so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise to spring up before all the nations.

 

As of yesterday, our church is exactly nine months into the covid-19 pandemic. It was on March 12 that I wrote to the elders of our congregation and said, “The problem is bigger than a lot of us thought it would be.” Within three days, we pivoted quickly, discouraging people from showing up in person and broadcasting worship services and Bible studies online. Very soon after that, we closed the building and taught ourselves to have committee meetings on something called Zoom.

I want to thank you, all of you, for your patience and perseverance. Even though we have eased back into something that almost looked normal, now we must persevere for a good while longer. Following today’s worship service, our elders will meet. We will approve a budget for the coming year. And the Session will act on my recommendation that we return to online-only worship services from noon today until (at least) the end of January. It is the hardest decision I have ever had to make in my thirty years among you. We covet your prayers and your support.

The fact is the pandemic will not settle down until Americans settle down. That’s the scientific fact. Keep the masks on, maintain safe distances, stay away from crowds – it’s all common sense. Medical experts implored us to stay home for Thanksgiving and many people didn’t. Now we are in a stretch when more people are dying from the virus each day than died on 9-11 or in Pearl Harbor.

Certainly, there is good news of the first approved vaccination, with others to be approved soon. Yet there will not be enough doses for everybody in our country until sometime late next year. Tomorrow, three million Americans will begin to receive vaccinations. That means only 325 million more Americans to go; and let’s remember, Americans are merely 4 percent of the world’s population.

The point is, all of us have the good news of what is coming – but we are not there yet. That sounds like the very definition of the season of Advent: we know what is coming, but it’s not here yet.

Every year but this one, folks have pushed to speed through the Advent season and get to Christmas. Part of that is human beings don’t like to wait for anything. Part of that is, in an otherwise typical year, we would hear Christmas carols in Macy’s, McDonalds, and at the gas pump at Sheetz, and frustrated we are not singing them yet in church. As one old salt commented memorably on the way out the church door, “Advent, shm-advent – I want to hear HoHoHo and Silent Night.”

This year, I’m not hearing any commentary like that. We know the best way to spread the virus is for all of us to sing, which is why only one of us is singing. And we are learning in patience what Advent means: we know what is coming, but it’s not here yet.

We are blessed to have resources in the Bible to get us through the long wait. The writings collected under the name of the prophet Isaiah can be among the most helpful. It is a book in three parts.

1)      The beginning of the prophet’s book sounds a warning to the people of God: if you don’t wise up, if you don’t start caring for the needy and the most vulnerable, woe will come to you.

We hear it in the Isaiah’s very first chapter: “Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your doings from before my eyes; cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.” (1:17-18)

This was the prophet’s call to the people. It was largely ignored by a nation that was impressed with itself. So when the Babylonian army invaded their land, smashed down their temple, and took their brightest and best away into captivity, some of the most spiritually sensitive perceived this was the judgment of God.

2)      Last week, we heard a fresh beginning in the second part of Isaiah. In the 40^th chapter, the prophet declares the time of punishment is over. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, tell her she has served her term and her penalty is paid. In the wilderness, prepare the way of the Lord. Make straight in the desert a highway for our God (40:1-3).

This is the declaration of hope, the promise that we are going home. The scholars suggest these are the words that ignited hope and prepared a return for the people of God. Pretty soon, they were on their way.

3)      Yet there is a third section in Isaiah’s book, and today’s scripture text comes in the thick of it. The prophet and his people have returned home – but they have discovered the return is not as smooth as they hoped.

Now, we understand this on a very human level. We have our hopes – but then there is the reality. The gift you ordered in the catalog looks so much smaller when it arrives. You ordered a special meal from the great restaurant, but it wasn’t so tasty when you swung by to pick it up. You expected this virus to disappear by a certain date, but it still rages on. You had your hopes – but reality is tough to accept.

Isaiah offers at least two responses to this common experience of us all. The first, as we heard two weeks ago, is to shake the fist at heaven and make a Holy Complaint. We heard him teach us how to do that on the first Sunday of Advent: “Lord, if only you would tear open the heavens and come down!” (64:1) That is a very important way to pray. It voices our frustration and directs it to the God who can do something about it.

Biblically speaking, this is called a lament. You tell God what troubles you. You get it off your chest. You unload the burden – and you focus on how God might choose to respond.

Isaiah’s second response comes in the text for today, from chapter 61. To state it simply, there is work to do. God hears our cries and appoints a spirit-filled Messiah to minister to the people. We are not left bereft. We are not abandoned. God sends a Savior. As someone notes, the Messiah offers a sequence of exchanges:

• The ashes of humiliation are exchanged for a crown of beauty
• The tears of grief are exchanged for the oil of gladness
• The weight of despair is exchanged for the shoulder yoke of praise[1]

This is the work of God. And it is no wonder that, of all the paragraphs of scripture, this is the very one that Jesus chooses as his personal mission statement. Remember that? He asks for this scroll on the day he preached in his hometown synagogue. Putting his finger on the text, he declared,

The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me;

he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; 

to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor, and the day of vengeance of our God

The key is in that phrase, “to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” That is, to announce the year of God’s grace. Both the prophet and the Christ are point to the Jubilee Year, the promised time every fifty years when all debts would be cancelled, when all stolen lands would be returned to the original owners, when all outsiders would be welcomed in, when all those economically enslaved would be set free. The Jubilee was a blessed hope, given in detail in the 25^th chapter of Leviticus.

 

Yet there is no evidence that the Jubilee was ever actually practiced. Imagine that! God tells the people to do something kind, something gracious, something holy – and they never get around to doing it. Not the first time that happened, nor the last.

 

And this, my friends, is the key to our Advent calling. We want so desperately for “things to go back to normal,” but for a lot of us it’s increasingly clear that what we considered “normal” was not working well for everybody. Neither was it working for Isaiah’s people, either. God told them to love one another – but they didn’t do it. God told them to lift the burdens of the oppressed – but they refused. God commanded them to bind up the brokenhearted – but they were too busy licking their own wounds and shoving their way to the front of the bread line.

 

The Messiah calls us to reset God’s justice, to re-establish God’s fairness, to re-balance a world tipped off its axis. And the way the Messiah is going to get these things done is by building a faithful community to lead the way. For the most part, God doesn’t work by magic but human mind and muscle. God works through those who are listening to him. We cannot pray, “O Lord, rip open the heavens, come down, and fix things,” if we are not willing to roll up our sleeves and do God’s work.

 

So when the prophet says, “They shall build up the ancient ruins, they shall raise up the former devastations; they shall repair the ruined cities,” the prophet calls on us to address the things that haven’t been working.

 

Here’s one of those things in our time: racism. It is a scourge. It is wickedness. And it has been entangled in our national story for four hundred years. Ever since African people were stolen from their homes and forced to work as unpaid laborers on Caucasian-owned farms, the toxic virus of racism has infected our nation. The Messiah will not let this stand. “Returning to the way things used to be” sounds like the 1950’s when people of color were forced to ride in the back of the bus; in the Kingdom of God, that will not stand. So let’s start repairing it.

Here is another devastation in our time: discrimination based on gender. It is as old as denying voice and vote to 52 percent of the population. It is as current as yesterday’s Wall Street Journal, where a male opinion writer demeaned the incoming First Lady for having four college degrees including a doctorate in education.[2] Let’s get over the ruins caused by putting women down. That is not merely deplorable; the Messiah will not allow it to continue in God’s kingdom. All people shall be honored equally.

Here is one more devastation: poverty. Poverty is not always obvious in a town like ours. However, twelve percent of our nation lives in poverty; many of the working poor have two or three job to barely stay afloat. No surprise: a higher proportion of them are women or people of color. Add to it, over five million people lost their health insurance last spring when they lost their jobs. 87 million people in our nation have no health insurance or are under-insured. And all of this when the stock market is climbing to record heights. Something is really broken. And the Messiah calls on us to repair it.

And one more devastation: illness. Specifically, the covid-19 pandemic. It got real for me again when I heard my friend Karen, a retired minister and classmate, died this week, gasping of breath in an ICU in Stroudsburg. We are going to have a lot to rebuild. All those attitudes that we presumed were “normal” will have to be replaced by clear science, compassionate care of neighbor, and common sense.

I take heart in reading the wisdom of Dr. Francis Collins. Dr. Collins is director of the National Institutes of Health and a faithful Presbyterian. In a recent interview, he offered these holy words: 

God gave us both a sense of God's love and care and compassion, but he also gave us the brain and the opportunity to understand God's creation, which is nature, which includes things like viruses. And I think God expected us to use those gifts to understand how to protect ourselves and others from disease. If we have the opportunity to heal through medicine, I think God expects us to do that and not count on some supernatural intervention to come and save us when he's already given us the chance to be saved by other means.[3]

 

Then he added:

The church, in this time of confusion, ought to be a beacon, a light on the hill, an entity that believes in truth.

It’s Advent, the third Sunday in Advent. The truth is we know what is coming, but it’s not here yet. What is coming is the Kingdom of God, a constellation of re-built relationships, all in the glory and simplicity of Jesus the Christ. The Spirit of the Lord is upon him and him alone, and he breathes his Spirit into us. Instead of breathing a virus, his breath is filled with justice, peace, and restoration. His holy work is to heal.

It is Christ who calls us to prepare for God’s rule over all by engaging in the repair work of a Messiah. We cannot expect God to do what you and I are called to do. No, we wait for God by working for God.

For Christ comes to us, in order to work through us, to benefit all of us, to the glory of God.

(c) William G Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] Eugene H. Peterson, As Kingfishers Catch Fire: A Conversation on the Ways of God Formed By the Words of God (New York: WaterBrook, 2017) 126-127.

[2] https://www.wsj.com/articles/is-there-a-doctor-in-the-white-house-not-if-you-need-an-m-d-11607727380

[3]Sarah Pulliam Bailey, “What NIH chief Francis Collins wants religious leaders to know about the coronavirus vaccines,” The Washington Post, December 12, 2020. Available at https://www.washingtonpost.com/religion/2020/12/12/coronavirus-vaccine-nih-francis-collins-faith-leaders/

 

Smoothing the Rough Places

Isaiah 40:1-11
Advent 2
December 6, 2020


Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid, that she has received from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins.

A voice cries out: “In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain. Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.” A voice says, “Cry out!” And I said, “What shall I cry?” All people are grass, their constancy is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades, when the breath of the Lord blows upon it; surely the people are grass. The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand forever.

Get you up to a high mountain, O Zion, herald of good tidings; lift up your voice with strength, O Jerusalem, herald of good tidings, lift it up, do not fear; say to the cities of Judah, “Here is your God!” See, the Lord God comes with might, and his arm rules for him; his reward is with him, and his recompense before him. He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep.

 

I have heard these words a lot over the years. Sometimes they emerge in a situation of deep weariness, and Isaiah declares “those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength.” Sometimes the word echo elsewhere, as in Psalm 103, “As for mortals, their days are like grass; they flourish like a flower of the field.” At least once a year, the words are heard from an angel choir singing Handel’s Messiah: “Comfort, comfort ye my people” and “Every valley shall be exalted.” The prophet’s words have been imprinted on posters, Christmas cards, and even the cover of a worship bulletin. These are words we have heard before. This week, I started to pay attention.

One of the best ways to pay attention to scripture is to ask the simple question, “What’s going on?” If there is a deed performed, what is the action undertaken? If there is a word spoken, what does the Word do? So what is going on in Isaiah 40?  I put together a short list.

-          An interruption of sorrow

-          A proclamation of grace that cancels our human brokenness

-          A declaration of homecoming to those who haven’t arrived yet

-          A reminder of the shortness of our mortality and eternity of God’s speaking

-          A vision of God’s arrival

-          An announcement that God’s power is shown in generosity and kindness

-          A Word of God’s constancy for the faint, weary, powerless, and exhausted

-          A good bit of cheerleading

No wonder that Isaiah names these words as “Good tidings.” They are tidings of comfort and joy, if you will. Walter Brueggemann goes so far as to name this as the Gospel of Isaiah, the ultimate Good Word. Here is the Gospel: God is near. Don’t be afraid. Home is at hand. Everything will be ok. Keep going.

It is a remarkable text that originates with an audible sigh of relief. “Comfort” is the word from the Hebrew text. This is a word intended to be an exhaled word. We don’t keep the stale air of sorrow in our lungs. We let it out. We can hear it in the Hebrew. Na-cham. Whoo. Comfort.  I can’t think of a better word.

For so many of us, this has been a most disorienting year. Back in the middle of March, I wrote a note to the congregation to say, “I look forward to seeing you back in church by Palm Sunday.” I didn’t realize that could be next Palm Sunday 2021. Those who planned to get married either downsized the plans or postponed the parties. Those who passed away had to settle for smaller remembrances, sometimes a good while after their passing. Our children are studying in front of screens. Those still employed are working from the kitchen table. People are making significant decisions about what they want to do and where they wish to live.

It has been a very disruptive year.

One of the most enlightening conversations came from a friend who put it this way: “I’m spending a great deal more time in my house, but I don’t feel at home.” Listen to that. Stay with that a minute. He rarely goes to the store, much less to pick up take-out food from a restaurant. He has enjoyed almost nine months to spruce up the property, plant vegetables, and tackle all those long-deferred improvement projects. He spends more time with his wife than he has for years, and they have rediscovered that they like one another.

And yet, his heart is deeply unsettled. He feels like an exile on his own property, a long way from home. Why is that?

No doubt there are plenty of reasons. There is confusion in the air. A completed national election is still disputed by a candidate who told us in advance he expected to be outvoted. A significant number of our neighbors have convinced themselves they will never get the covid-19 virus, so they ignore the scientific facts of public health.

Closer to home, even though a lot of the Christmas lights have gone up earlier, nobody seems to be caught up in the usual hoopla for the holidays – Thanksgiving was quiet, Christmas could be quieter. The only excitement on my street is when the big brown truck stops in front of the house. We can open the parcels, gift wrap the contents, and send them out again – at least, that’s my plan for this week.

It's disorienting and disruptive, a challenge to both the imagination and the emotional reservoir. There are plenty of ZOOM seminars to keep us connected with the rest of humanity. One of them began with the simple piece of advice: admit how you feel. Slow down and don’t try to outrun it; there’s nowhere to run. Don’t sugar-coat it to your friends, for they are probably feeling the same.  

In a different year, we would complain to one another about how stressed we feel. There’s so much to do! In this strange year, we can complain how stressed we feel, because there isn’t a lot to do. The point of intersection is whatever is behind the stress. Let me suggest it is the singular truth that we don’t feel at home. We are far from home.

So the Word of the Lord comes to the prophet Isaiah. It is a single word: comfort. The word is repeated: comfort, comfort. And it is offered to all of us.

I did a little poking around and discovered something. In the Hebrew Bible, comfort is a re-alignment word. It is a verb designed to move us from one emotional state to another. Some scholars suggest it bears a twinge of repentance, a decision to not go down the road of self-destruction. It’s curious that every time in the Hebrew Bible when God repents – when God changes the divine mind and cancels all the lightning bolts – this is the verb: comfort.^[1] How could it be otherwise? God’s ultimate purpose is not destruction but re-building. Restoring. Bringing us home.

The amazing thing about Isaiah – at least this incarnation of Isaiah – is that he preaches homecoming to people who haven’t gotten there yet. He points beyond his own circumstances toward the horizon just out of sight. Isaiah speaks as a captive in Babylon. For nearly seventy years, he and his neighbors have lived in a land that is not their own. For all we know, Isaiah may have been born there, raised there, flourished there – but it was not his home.

For most of those seventy years, the Jews in Babylon debated and discussed how this calamity came upon them.

• Some said, “Maybe we should have listened when the prophets warned we had turned our backs on holiness.”
• Some said, “Maybe we should have paid attention when the prophets called us to stop worshiping our own comfort and start loving our neighbors.”
• Some said, “Maybe we ignored God’s commandments so regularly that ignoring became a habit.”
• Some said, “Maybe God grew tired of waiting for us to come to our senses.”

And after this long, seventy-year dialogue, God interrupts: Comfort, O comfort my people. Speak tenderly to them. Announce all sin is forgiven. Tell them all penalties are paid. It is time for a new beginning. It’s time to come home.

That’s what God says, even before his people physically return to the places they could almost remember. “Returning home” is more than packing up the ox cart and hauling your stuff back to the old zip code. “Returning home” is a symbol for what it means to live with God. It’s a metaphor for re-connecting with the invitation to obey what God teaches as a way of loving both Creator and creation. It’s a practical return to flourishing and fulfillment.

In the middle of this very disruptive year, I hear an invitation like that. 2020 is Year of the Reset, the Year to See Straight. In the middle of all we have lost, we can claim what we value most. In a time when we have been stripped of extravagances, God’s invitation is to trust the essentials. In a season when we have been deprived of hugs, we must find other ways to affirm and stay connected. In a moment when wanderlust has been curtailed, we begin to see – in 2020 vision – the gifts and beauty that already surround us.

To make this move in our hearts as well as in our imaginations, we are comforted with a new view of home.

Like the prophet, I strain to imagine what we might see. We have a fresh awareness of how fleeting life is, like the withering of grass or the fading of the flower, but we can treasure all the days that God provides. I can only imagine how it would feel to live without fear, to know deep in our bones how gracious God is, and to flourish in that freedom.

Best of all, I can begin to picture how good it is for God to find us, how sweet it is for God to make a way to us, how joyful it is to announce with full resolve, “Here is your God.” That is when we know Advent is doing its work on us. And the moment can come when we discover that the Word spoken to the prophet Isaiah is also a Word spoken to us.

Comfort, comfort. Don’t be afraid. Here is your God.

 

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] See, for instance, Exodus 32:12-14, Judges 2:16-18, 2 Samuel 24:16, and Jonah 3:9-10