Every
Advent, I feel two competing impulses, two competing tones. These competing
tones are represented in my imagination by two songs.
The
first of these is “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.” The song speaks to me, in its
words and its minor key, of longing, even of lament. Although the last phrase
is “Rejoice,” with the assurance that Emmanuel—or God-with-us—shall come, I
still feel in the song a gathering-together of all the world’s deep sorrow and
injustice and need for cleansing and redeeming and mercy. Advent gives us an
opportunity to live into this reality of our desperate need for God’s tender
compassion, and I don’t think you need me to give you a list of recent
headlines to prove that we have a lot to lament and long for—a lot to be freed
from.
The
other song is from the musical Godspell.
(Do you know Godspell?) It’s the John
the Baptist song at the beginning of the show: his voice rings out, a cappella,
slowly, singing, “Prepare ye the way of the Lord” (I would sing it for you, but
my range isn’t that good. Can anybody do it for us?) The song begins with this
repeated phrase, but after a while instruments come in, and the pace picks up:
it’s an up-tempo, joyful song, just that repeated phrase, over and over. In the
1973 film version, John the Baptist’s voice echoes out in the wilderness of the
city, and folks from all walks of life hear it and leave behind what they’re
doing and find him at a fountain. And they jump in—it’s a baptism scene, and he
is preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, in
preparation for the Messiah to come—but these people are splashing and laughing
and playful, like children all over again.
Mournful
longing—and joyful activity. Two songs, and two sides to Advent, this season
during which we pay special attention to how we are “freedom bound.” These two
songs also speak to our lectionary texts on this second Sunday of Advent. These
texts—from Malachi, Luke, and Philippians—invite us into three overlapping
stories: first, the story of God’s covenant with the people of Israel; second,
the story of Elizabeth and Zechariah; and third, the story of the universe, a
story in which all of us find ourselves. All three of these stories showcase
painful, extended longing. But they also showcase joyful hope that the Lord is
coming.
The
first story, the story of God’s partnership with Israel, is highlighted for us
in the Old Testament reading from Malachi, a prophetic promise that God will
send a messenger to prepare the way for the Lord. It’s a promise to continue
the covenant Yahweh made long generations past with the Israelites, a promise
of blessing. If we imagine the situation of the people receiving this prophecy,
the promise is even more vivid: the Israelites had finally returned from exile
and been restored to the land God had promised their ancestors Sarah and
Abraham. They ought to have been full of joy and faithfulness. Yet in the book
of Malachi, God speaks out against corruption among the priesthood, religious
and moral laxity, injustice against workers, widows, orphans, and refugees, an
overall lack of faith in God’s promise to reward righteousness. And still,
despite the people’s failure to hold up their end of the bargain, God reminds
them “I do not change.” God promises fulfillment, promises to send a messenger
and to come to them. Now this promise of future arrival isn’t entirely
comforting: indeed, the Lord will bring judgment, like the harsh soap that
washes soil from newly-shorn wool, or the fire that melts away impurities from
gold or silver. Who can stand when this Lord appears, we are asked in verse 2.
This is
a question we must ask ourselves as well. It’s easy enough to read the sins described
in Malachi and pat ourselves on the back: most of us aren’t sorcerers, and
we’re certainly not priests offering second-rate animal sacrifices in the
temple. But how do we treat those
around us? What do our habits of thought and speech and action say about the
desires of our hearts? How do we implicitly, without even thinking about it,
contribute to the oppression of the vulnerable—in subtle racism, in blatant
disregard for who made our clothes or picked our grapes? How often do we give
in to the sin of apathy in a world supersaturated with injustice? What chains
bind our hearts?
These
are difficult questions. The introspection this season asks of us—the
introspection this text asks of us—is hard and painful work. We find ourselves
bound by chains of sin within our hearts, or stuck perpetuating injustices we
don’t know how to fix, or sometimes, oppressed by others’ sin and injustice. We
are left to cry out, in a minor key: “O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free / Thine
own from Satan’s tyranny.”
But there
is good news wound through even the judgment warning of Malachi: “Return to
me,” God says later in chapter 3, “and I will return to you” (vv. 6, 7). That
is an image of mercy if I’ve ever seen one: mercy as compassion, mercy as
forgiveness. This is the story of God’s faithfulness to God’s chosen
partner-people, a story of patient, steadfast love in the face of rejection. It
is a story of promised freedom from oppression, and freedom from the bonds that
cause us to oppress others. The Lord’s promised coming brings with it not
destruction but purification: the wool is not destroyed in the washing, nor is the
gold destroyed in the refining. Instead, they are made ready to serve their
purposes to bring warmth, to bring beauty to this world. The wool and the
precious metal need to be set free from the impurities that hold them back from
serving these purposes. God’s promised future arrival, preceded by this
prophesied messenger, is not a promise of arbitrary punishment, but a promise
to bring freedom.
In the
400-some years that passed between the prophecy of Malachi and the fulfillment
we read of in the book of Luke, things did not get easier for the Israelites. The
need for freedom, for deliverance, only grew. These were centuries of war and
difficulty, centuries when the people saw their promised land occupied by
imperial Rome. Not to mention the waiting:
their God had promised to send a messenger, a new prophet Elijah, had promised
to come to them and save them—and where was this messenger? Where was this
Messiah?
And here
we come to the story of Elizabeth and Zechariah. Our passage from Luke 1 is
Zechariah’s song after their son John is born—that John is John the Baptizer,
about whose ministry we read in Luke 3, that messenger the New Testament
writers insistently interpret as the one promised in Malachi. Elizabeth and
Zechariah were an ordinary couple living in ordinary—which is to say
difficult—times. People in an occupied territory, trying to make a life,
heartbroken over their infertility, righteous yet disgraced because they lived
in a day when childlessness was viewed as a sign of punishment. And God steps
into their story, answers a prayer they had probably already ceased to pray,
and grants them a child. When this child is born as promised, everyone who
hears of it rejoices because, as the Gospel writer describes it, “the Lord has
shown his great mercy to [Elizabeth].”
This
gets me every time: the way God’s merciful fulfillment of Elizabeth and
Zechariah’s deep personal longings intersects with the fulfillment of a promise
made centuries before to an entire people. John the Baptizer, the Lord’s
messenger who would declare his arrival, could have been born to anyone. But he
was born to a couple who had waited and waited, and who had been judged by
society, and who were at the point of giving up hope. In one sense, Elizabeth
and Zechariah are a vivid pictures of the Israelites: they had waited and
waited, they had been judged (and oppressed) by their Roman occupiers, they
were at the point of giving up hope. In another sense, it’s crucial that we
remember that these two were individual, particular people, because this
teaches us something true about our own lives. Our stories, with their pains
and their joys, intersect in mysterious and powerful and unpredictable ways
with the stories of the people around us, the stories of the universe. We
should never discount that.
But back
to Zechariah’s song in Luke 1: the man has been mute during Elizabeth’s
pregnancy because he doubted Gabriel’s announcement that the couple would
conceive (can we really blame him?). But at John’s naming ceremony he is given back
his voice, filled with the Holy Spirit, and compelled to speak a prophetic song.
And what a song! In it, Zechariah echoes the Psalms and the prophets, drawing a
connection between his miraculously-born son John, the Messiah John would
herald, and the promises God had made to the people of Israel. Zechariah’s song
repeats, again and again, that God is to be praised because of the way the
covenant—finally, at long last, after such years and years of waiting—is being
fulfilled. It’s a song about how God’s favor, redemption, salvation, and rescue
have arrived, and are arriving, and will arrive. It’s a song about a God who
frees from both outward oppressions and inward sins. It’s a song about a God
whose character shines forth in this keeping-of-promises. And that is a
character, a heart, of tender mercy, of tender compassion.
Zechariah’s
song—his story, with his wife Elizabeth—speaks to the arc of the Israelites’
story, and God’s ancient covenant with them, but it’s also a song for all of us.
This oath God swore to Abraham was a promise of blessing, yes, a promise (as my
Old Testament professor Dr. Miller always used to say) of land, nation, and leader,
but it didn’t end with the people of Israel. We see that in both of this
morning’s passages from Luke, and it brings me to the third story I mentioned,
the story of the whole created world. This is the place where our story—yours
and mine—intersects with Elizabeth’s and Zechariah’s and the Israelites’. Because
God’s promise to Abraham, which we read about in Genesis 12, was never just to
bless his family or his people: “You will be a blessing,” Yahweh says to Abram.
“All peoples on earth will be blessed by you.”
The
story of God’s covenant with Israel is a story of blessing and preparing a
people to bring light into the world. This seems to be the way God prefers to
work. John’s ministry began, in fulfillment of Malachi, with his preaching a
baptism of repentance—and forgiveness (those who ask receive, those who seek
find): and with the promise that “all flesh shall see the salvation of God.”
“Prepare ye the way of the Lord,” we hear him singing, and the call is for all
of us, and it’s a call of joy. When we turn from our sin, God is waiting with a
heart of mercy, waiting to free us and fill us with purpose. As Zechariah says
in his song, God’s rescue comes so that we might serve him. It is for freedom
that we are set free, set free to share the freedom. We receive mercy so that
we may in turn be merciful. This is God’s intention, recorded from the very
beginning, an intention that blessing in one story should overlap into the next
story and the next, in a glorious ripple effect of redemption.
This news is good. Advent
can be a time of dancing and tambourines and splashing in a baptismal fountain,
because even the painful work of repentance is wrapped up in God’s mercy and
the promise of freedom. And still: we are waiting. This is the already-not-yet
of Advent. John has come into the world, heralding the Messiah. The Messiah has
come into the world, heralding the Kingdom of God. But our world has not yet
seen full fulfillment. We are still waiting for the light to break through, like
Elizabeth and Zechariah, like their people. We read the news, we look into our
hearts, we watch our dear ones suffer with illness, we face into our own
finitude, and I’ll say for myself, I feel at times that I am sitting in
darkness and in the shadow of death. As I told you at the outset, I swing back
and forth between my two Advent songs. Sometimes—and especially recently—what
feels truer is a mournful tune.
And I look around me and
within me, and I ask myself, what does it mean to prepare the way of the Lord,
in these difficult days? When will my nation’s leaders do something to curb the
outrageous gun violence unique to the land of my birth? When will our wealthy
nations curb the environmental degradation our lifestyles cause? When will
refugees all have homes, when will Indigenous people cease to be murdered and
go missing at disproportionate rates, when will prisons cease to be overfull,
when will people cease to be judged by the color of their skin, when will
hunger cease to be a problem in a world full of food? When will I have ever
done enough to help, on all these fronts? When will my own heart cease toward
self-protection, self-distraction, self-justification? There are times when the
already-not-yet Kingdom seems awfully far away, and all I can sing is “O come,
o come, Emmanuel.” If I can sing at all.
And so, what I have to
offer in closing is a story—one of my stories—that
I hold out as a metaphor, a reminder of why we must stubbornly cling to the
major as well as the minor key.
This
week, four years ago, I was in labor. I paced our Montana apartment, gripped by
the strongest pain I had ever felt in my life, pain so fierce that all I could
do was bend and moan and beg Jesus for mercy.
Those of
you who know me know that I don’t have a four-year-old child. That day four
years ago, I was laboring to bring forth a babe I already knew would never
laugh or cry or breathe the air. I’d had what doctors call a missed
miscarriage—Josh and I went in to the midwife for our 12-week checkup full of
joy, expecting to hear a heartbeat, and instead we learned via ultrasound that
the little one had ceased to grow at least a week before, although my body had
given no sign of trouble. As the weeks passed, it became clear that I would
have to labor in order to lay this little one to rest.
I tell
this story for two reasons. First, it is my story, but many of you probably
have stories like it. These stories speak of our sorrow. They speak of how we
live in a world oriented toward unexpected and unwelcome death. These losses,
and the longings of our hearts, are part of the world of brokenness and
injustice that we lament.
But as I
said, my main reason for telling this story is to offer us an image, a
metaphor. There are times when we groan under the weight of this world, when we
struggle and labor and in our pain and exhaustion, we lose sight of the
promised light. When we look around us and within us, sometimes, we give in to
the belief that our labor is in vain, that our labor is a hopeless, agonizing
task that will bring no life into the world. How could we believe our
repentance has any value? How could we ever think our work was meant to prepare
a way for the Lord?
I have
also given birth to a living child—an eight pound, nine-and-a-half-ounce living
child, who was head down but face-up, meaning 17 hours of back labor, meaning 17
hours of solid pain, without relief between contractions. The pain of that
labor was an otherworldly thing: the exhaustion and desperation were unlike
anything I have ever experienced. But at the end of it, I held a dark-haired, wide-eyed
little being, screaming with life, warm and throbbing with life and potential
and mystery, and there are no words for the joy of it.
Friends,
our stories are full of pain and difficulty. Our miscarriages are not always
followed by live births. Our illnesses are not always healed. Our efforts do
not always succeed. Our world is full
of pain and difficulty. Darkness and death seem at times to be winning. But the
Big Story—the cosmic story—the story toward which all of creation arcs—it ends
in life. This is the core of our
faith, and we see hints of it when we have eyes to see: in the casserole
delivered after a surgery, in the phone call that comes at just the right time,
in the testimonies of unexpected healing, in the smiles of strangers, in the
magenta sunrise that asserts itself over the prairie at the end of a long
winter night.
Freedom is coming. We labor for life. We work for justice and mercy around
us—we do the painful work of repentance within us—in full assurance that the
God who began a good work in us is able to complete it. That the God who
promised to bless the world through Sarah and Abraham is a keeper of
promises—that this God, on a timeframe we will never comprehend, in upside-down
ways we will never be able to predict, revealed to us in a Jesus who is both
tender compassion personified and also a purifying fire—this God will midwife
life out of our labors. We live with all of creation in labor pains with the
full assurance that By the tender mercy
of our God, the dawn from on high has broken upon us and will break upon us, to
give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide
our feet into the way of peace—and
all flesh shall see the salvation of God. This is our hope. Let us cling to
it, stubbornly, in these days of Advent and all the days to come. Let us sing
all our songs—of longing and of joy.
Amen.