Cries of Hope

Sermon preached Sunday, November 29, 2020, the First Sunday of Advent, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

Our readings this week open with a powerful lament:

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down,
so that the mountains would quake at your presence—” (Isaiah 64:1)

This is not a polite request. This is not a suggestion. This is a passionate, heart-rending, desperate cry for help.

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down!”

I can really resonate with Isaiah. I bet you can, too.

If we think of all the fears, all the disappointments, all the rancor, all the destruction, all the pain, all the grief, all the death, all the stress, all the anxiety, all the questions…if we think of everything we’ve been through in just the last nine months, I think we all might resonate with Isaiah.

“O that you would tear open the heaves and come down!”

What would you have God do? How would you like God to act? Feel free to share in the comments.

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down!”

Come down, and rid us of this plague.

Come down, and spare us from natural disasters.

Come down, and unite your people in love.

Come down, and fix this mess we’ve made.

It’s a fitting way to begin advent, although maybe it doesn’t seem that way on the surface. Advent is a time of waiting, of longing, of anticipation—and what are we anticipating?

“O God, that you would come down.” We anticipate God’s descent into our world and into our skin. We anticipate God’s presence in our world. We anticipate Emmanuel—God-with-us.

God-with-us then and God-with-us now. Because when we look towards Christmas, when we enter this season of waiting, we don’t just do it to pretend like we don’t know Jesus was born two thousand years ago…and we don’t do it to imply that Christ’s coming among us then didn’t matter.

No, we mark these weeks leading up to the celebration of the incarnation because we know that Christ is the one who was, who is and who is to come.

And so we look at the past and see Jesus’ life and ministry and death and resurrection.

And we look at the present and see the face of Jesus in our neighbor and the ones we love and feel the presence of Jesus among us.

And—and—we look to the future when Christ will come again and make all things new.

So even when we might be sitting in this time of disappointment and grief and loss and anxiety, we still have hope.

Hope for reconciliation.

Hope for health.

Hope for wholeness.

Hope for peace.

Hope for a new day.

Hope for new life.

Because without hope, what are we waiting for? Without hope, what are we longing for?

Even Isaiah had hope.

“O that you would open the heavens and come down!”

We, with Isaiah, hope for the new future God has in store.

Amen.

While It Was Still Night

Sermon preached Saturday, March 31 at the Great Easter Vigil, held at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

I wonder if you caught a very small detail in tonight’s gospel reading. It’s right at the beginning, in the first sentence: “Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark…”

“…while it was still dark…” I love that phrase. It’s one of those parts of the Bible I turn around and around in my mind because I can’t let it go.

“…while it was still dark…” That’s not usually the way we picture Easter morning, is it? When we think about the women arriving at the tomb to anoint the body of Jesus, we usually imagine that’s it is dawn, the sky is slowly lightening as the sun moves higher in the sky. Sunlight might be filtering softly through trees. There might be some dew on the ground, sparkling a little as the sun beams hit it. It’s not usually still night.

Maybe that’s why I like it. In the other three Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), the women arrive at dawn…but in John it is still before sunrise. It is still night. The new day hasn’t yet arrived.

It’s night now. The sun was setting as we gathered outside around the fire, but if we peer out through the windows right now, we see that it is well and truly night. And so it is night outside and it’s also night in our world—the kind of deep night that leads to hopelessness…wondering if God is even there at all.

This night is everywhere, even in the daylight. We are surrounded by it. It invades our lives through news reports, or stories from friends, or the inner demons that seek to take root in our every thought. This night is overwhelming, smothering, and as we’re stumbling through trying to find our way, we look for Jesus. We come to the tomb, with Mary, to grieve, to mourn, to look for the place where Jesus is supposed to be.

While it is still night, we weep. We look for our Lord. We ask where Jesus has gone…because in all the shadows, we don’t see him. We don’t see God in all the hate, the fear and the grief. We don’t see God in the hopelessness and loss.

But God is there. Jesus comes to Mary while it was still dark out—while it was still night. And Jesus comes to us as well. Jesus is there. He hears our sorrow, sees our tears and then says our name. And in that moment, when we know that God has heard us and seen us, God is revealed to us.

God doesn’t promise lives without difficulty. God doesn’t promise that faith will mean a life without death or struggle. The promises that God makes are different, but infinitely more valuable: Eternal and abundant life; Emmanuel, “God is with us.” God says, “I am with you always, to the end of the age.” And, as we hear proclaimed each year at Christmas, God promises that Christ, the light of the world, shines in the shadows and they do not overcome it.

Light that looks like grace and forgiveness. Light that looks like efforts to work towards peace, justice and equality. Light that looks like gifts of food or other resources to those who need it most. Light that looks like violence being met with compassion instead of revenge.

Once Mary Magdalene recognizes Jesus, she hurries back to tell the disciples, “I have seen the Lord.” And she had! Even though it was still night, Mary saw Jesus. The light of Christ shone in the shadows of fear and anxiety and grief and overcame them.

And even in the midst of our world’s deep night, tonight’s celebration of Christ’s resurrection reminds us that Christ is always with us, even when we don’t recognize him.

Earlier, we gathered outside around a new fire. The fire broke up the oncoming evening, glowing brightly through the dusk. And then we shared the fire among ourselves, lighting our candles and spreading the light from one person to another.

God is like that light, dispelling the shadows, breaking through the despair or gloom, and being shared between the people of God. No matter how heavy the night might feel, God is there to call our name and bring us light, often passed to us from a friend, or neighbor, or even stranger.

On this holy night, we rejoice! The light of the risen Christ shines through the night. Amen.