Sermon for November 29, 2020 - The Fourth Sunday of Advent - The Rev. Elise A. Feyerherm

Isaiah 64:1-9                                                                                      

Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18                                                                           

1 Corinthians 1:3-9                                                                            

Mark 13:24-37

Episcopal priest and esteemed preacher, Fleming Rutledge, has written that “Advent begins in the dark.” She is referring, first of all, to the readings on this Sunday, which in many Christian circles is the first Sunday of Advent. For us here at St. Paul’s, and for a small but growing number of Christian communities around the world, it is the fourth Sunday of Advent – we began our journey in early November.

So we have noticed for some time that Advent has begun, once again, in the dark. Not only physical darkness, as the clocks shifted back an hour and the shadows have been inexorably lengthening. Our readings have also been for some time in shadows. The bridesmaids, watching their lamps grow dimmer as the bridegroom’s arrival is delayed. A so-called “worthless slave” thrown into the outer darkness for his unwillingness to risk. Those who gave no food to the hungry, no drink to the thirsty, no welcome to the stranger, punished for their obliviousness to the God who is calling them.

And today, Jesus paints a picture of a darkened sun, a moon that does not shine, a heaven without the sparkling and glittering of stars, and a messenger of God coming on murky clouds to judge the heavens and the earth. Even the long-awaited master of the house’s arrival is likely to come in the shadows – in the evening, midnight, cockcrow, or the dim light of dawn.

We should tread carefully, of course, in using images of the dark – how easily they are transposed onto dark-skinned faces. In our age, in this land, images of darkness can ring with evil intent and, even without that intent, can serve as instruments of oppression. And yet the experience of being in the shadows is one we can all share, no matter who we are. 

And we are in the shadows, these days. These days, as many people as died in 9/11 die of COVID in this country… every 2-3 days.

This is what we are carrying now, have been carrying for months… and for as long as we humans have been on this earth. This is the way things have been from the beginning. We humans live, no matter the season, no matter the age, in Advent shadows.

There is more, however, to this season. Advent is, above all, about expectation, about raising our eyes to the horizon. We know it is coming, we know who is coming, we just cannot see far enough. What we are looking for is rarely, if ever, in plain sight, and there is the rub. So I wonder – is there a better word than darkness? Does Advent expectation live, perhaps, in hiddenness? Perhaps Advent lives, as we do, as God seems to, not in the dark exactly, but cloaked and covered.

Isaiah knows about this, about the cloaking and covering of new life. In this later part of the book, the people of Israel have returned to their land from exile, but have little to show for it. God brought them back from Babylon, was faithful, but has been playing a distressing game of hide-and-seek. “You were angry,” Third Isaiah writes, “and we sinned; because you hid yourself we transgressed… There is no one who calls on your name, or attempts to take hold of you; for you have hidden your face from us, and have delivered us into the hand of our iniquity.” Even when we think we are heading in the right direction, God flits and flees and evades our sight.

I had a picture book as a child that was only black and white photographs, no words. It was from the child’s perspective, as they go shopping with their parent in a crowded mall. All begins normally. Then the child loses their grip on the parent’s hand. Surrounded by strangers. Lost. Alone. Terrified.

But soon – and it is, thankfully, a short book – the parent reappears, and all is well. I can still feel viscerally the terror it evoked of being lost.

The one who has promised to keep us safe is hidden away, is nowhere to be found. “You have hidden your face from us.” We believe that the One who loves us is coming – but we are not at the end of the book yet. We are still in the crowd of strangers. The parent is out there somewhere, but beyond our ability to see.

We cannot yet see our Redeemer fully, but we are being taught in Advent about what new life is coming. We are learning to look for signs of new life, wherever they may be. Jesus teaches, “From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near.”

Remember, though, human beings did not know in the beginning about these trustworthy signs of the seasons, but they learned over the years, and they passed that knowledge from generation to generation. Even now as children we do not know at first what those tender green shoots mean – we have to be taught what to look for, schooled in the practice of looking for that first sign, and helped to understand what it means. But once we have learned, we look for it eagerly. This is what we are doing here, week after week, gathered to probe the scriptures and pray our prayers and practice expectation.

“From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near.” There is another lesson even before this one: long before the branch becomes tender, long before any change is detectable to the eye, life is awakening deep underground. The school botany project taught us long ago of the agony of waiting for germination – is anything really happening under there? What if this time the seed fails to sprout? All is hidden.

The new life that we are practicing to see, and before we see it, to expect – we have to trust, based on what we have seen and what Jesus assures us is coming. The people of Israel lament that God is hiding – Let us not forget, however, that the very fact of this lament assumes God is, and was, and will be in the midst of the people once again.

Here is what I believe with all my heart: that Jesus is not toying with us. That when he speaks of green shoots and new life, he is not playing, but reminding us of the faithfulness of our God. If we cannot see under the cloak, we can remind ourselves that just because life is hidden does not mean it is not burgeoning underground. In fact, we know it is, like the shoot from the stump of Jesse, waiting to burst forth in the most unlikely of places.

The force behind each tender shoot continues to pulse – in this good earth, in each of us, in the Body of Christ that continues to gather in unlikely ways.  We have seen over and over again that Love is alive, and will show itself. From the fig tree learn its lesson – the promise of Advent begins in hiddenness, as does every child in its mother’s womb, as does every vision of justice in the heart of those who love God.

Hidden, yes – and also waiting, most surely, to reveal itself. Waiting for us, as we pray:

God of unveiled truth, faithful flame

in times of darkened sun and waning moon:

lift up our unknowing hearts, and waken our sleeping love

to announce the coming dawn of unexpected peace;

through Jesus Christ, the one who is to come.

Amen.

(Steven Shakespeare, Prayers for an Inclusive Church. New York: Church

Publishing, Inc., 2009, p.44).