Sermon for December 10, 2023 – The Second Sunday of Advent
Isaiah 40:1-11; Psalm 85:1-2, 8-13; 2 Peter 3:8-15a; Mark 1:1-8
We began our Advent journey last week in a rather unexpected way. With our eyes clearly fixed on Christmas and preparations for the holidays, I imagine that most of us were expecting to hear stories of managers, shepherds, and visitors from afar. Or perhaps we expected to hear stories of angels, prophetic announcements of God’s divine plan for the restoration of humanity, or perhaps even Mary’s “yes.” As we imagine the trajectory of our Advent as a season of preparation for the birth of Jesus and the celebration of his feast day, instead of hearing “don’t be afraid” …we heard “Keep awake!”
Instead of starting our preparation for the Incarnation at the beginning of the story, we started at the end. We heard Jesus warn us that the structures of this world will come to an end when he comes again. This is an invitation for our vision, our physical and spiritual selves to be both present and looking forward. We look forward in anticipation of the coming fulfillment of God’s plan for humanity through Christ. We remain present by remembering the story of the Incarnation and looking for how Christ is being born once again in our hearts, and in the midst of this community.
So, we have to wait a little longer for the shepherds and angels, the wise men and shining stars. We have to wait a little longer for the fulfillment of God’s plan for creation, and so we sit in this in-between time, this season of preparation. In the midst of this waiting, we hear the voice calling out for us. Indeed, there is a voice calling out in the wilderness. Can you hear it? It is beckoning us to follow; inviting us to prepare the way…for something is about to happen unlike anything God has done in the history of humanity.
I have been to the wilderness before. For ten days I canoed the winding waterways of northern Maine, where gravel roads owned by logging companies weave their way through a dense forest wilderness. There I learned that if you didn’t bring it with you, then you would have to learn to do without, because there are no stores in the wilderness, and very few people, if any at all. In Idaho, we lived on the edges of the wilderness; surrounded by tall snowcapped mountains that touch the sky and ancient rivers rapidly carving their ways through massive canyons. There I learned to respect the wild animals that made their home in the wilderness and hovered around the periphery of our community; rattlers, moose, wolves, and bears. And I have been to the Judean wilderness from our story this morning, with its deafening silence, its windswept barren landscape that is seemingly devoid of water and life. This wilderness, like any wilderness, is filled with a myriad of dangers and indescribable beauty.
Yet, in the midst of this wilderness there is a small river, and river is a very generous description, but a river nonetheless, and I have stood in that river, and I could feel God’s presence in the cool water as it slowly passed by around me, and in the sand as my toes dug into the riverbed. It is in this river, in this wilderness, that a voice cried out to the people of God to repent and be cleansed because the Kingdom of God was coming near.
Often our Advent talk ends up being moralistic when we read John the Baptist exclusively through the eyes of repentance and moral righteousness. With the good news of Jesus Christ, God has already entered the struggle. He is himself “gospel,” good news from the very beginning. The words of Isaiah help us to perceive the voice that commands that we prepare a way in the wilderness. But the way is not ours. The way is the Lord’s. And that’s good news for the struggle.
It is important that the way is not ours, because following our way often leaves us crying out in the wilderness. I know, because I have been to that wilderness too. We find ourselves in so many different kinds of wilderness. At times we experience wilderness as an emptiness or loneliness; it can be feeling disconnected from others or being physically lost. Other times we find ourselves in a spiritual wilderness, where we cry out to God, desperately seeking his presence and light in the midst of darkness. We hear the voice calling out both within us, and around us. We hear the cry of God from the depths of our souls and from the mouths of others. The voice is calling from the wilderness of our hearts and the wilderness of the broken world around us.
Because that is exactly where God’s people are; crying out from the margins where racism, sexism, and other discrimination have pushed them aside. Crying out from behind the borders where profiling and bigotry have ejected them. Crying out from the confines of silence where harassment and violence have expelled them. Can you hear them?
We know, in theory, that the desert is where God shows up. But we know even more, by experience, that it’s a lonely place to be. We know, deeply, that it is also the place where we will likely utter Jesus’ own words, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” We know, fearfully, that the wilderness is also the place where abandonment takes root in our hearts and isolation takes over our souls. No wonder we have to convince ourselves that, “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,” and hopefully this happens without our help.
Because of this there is no easing into the Gospel of Mark, as much as we desperately wish we could. Matthew has been hard on us, and rightly so. But, no, says Mark. No genealogies. No birth stories. No cosmic hymn to celebrate the preexistent Word. Nope. Just the wilderness, outside of all comfort and norms, outside of regulations and restrictions, outside where the marginalized long to be heard.
The wilderness is a critical context for Advent. As soon as we find ourselves comfortable in an Advent that simply sits around in anticipation and waiting, that comfort will quickly turn into complacency. As soon as we treat Advent as nothing other than looking forward to and toward the big event of Jesus’ birth, we have bypassed the wilderness for the sake of easing our own consciences. As soon as our waiting turns into idleness, we have to admit that we are neither willing to risk rejection nor are we willing to be labeled a “John the Baptist.” Prophetic figures are rarely popular in today’s world.
Nevertheless, we know the promise of hope and restoration that Isaiah reveals to the community in exile, is the same promise that has been given to us through Jesus Christ. As we lament the distance that separates us from God, distance that is often of our own making, we know that Christ is the bridge over all that which separates us from God. Christ is our pathway out of the wilderness. This season is a time for us to prepare the way; prepare the way in our hearts and in the world around us to once again receive God into our midst. When we hear the voice from the wilderness, may we have ears to listen and hearts to understand. Amen.
