Sunday
December 15

The Adventure of Advent

By Marsh Chapel

Click here to hear the full service

Isaiah 35:1-10

James 5:7-10

Matthew 11:2-11

Click here to hear just the sermon

Frontispiece

The adventure of Advent is part memory and part hope.

A couple of weeks ago, our Christmas tree appeared, here in the NE corner of Marsh Chapel, whence the sermon this Lord’s day.  It took six men and a boy to bring it in, and set it up.  At about 12 feet in height, it is our largest tree in memory.  Carrying caked ice, the tree tested the mettle of those carrying her.  Many have commented on the tree’s stature and beauty.  Some have rightly noticed the fragrance, the scent, the pine needle and pine woods perfume it has brought along, to help us, downstairs and upstairs, to welcome a new season, a familiar return of the rhythms of Advent leading to Christmas.

One or another, it may be, sitting quietly in the nave, embraced by the fragrance, aroma, scent, perfume of Advent, may have wondered, even aloud, whether the return of a season—secular, religious, cultural, familial all—might bring with it a healing balm.  Our climate is in calamity.  Our government is in an uproar:  ¾ of Americans cannot name the three branches of government. Our denomination is in tatters.  Our semester is at an and.  Our work places are more human than divine.  Our families are in need of prayer: 200,000 opioid related deaths since oxycontin was approved, 1995.   Incidents of self-harm for young adults, ages 10-24, increased from 2007 to 2017 by 56% (during the same decade as the full expanse of social media).  Our souls themselves are divided, part hope and part fear.  And here stands the tree, mute, but claiming our senses, at the turn of the ages.  Lovely thy branches.  Can the return of a season, sensed in the senses, bring balm, bring a healing balm, bring judgment and redemption?  The tall tree before us is laden with ornaments of memory and lights of hope, ornaments of memory like that in Matthew, lights of hope like that is Isaiah.

Adventure in Memory (Matthew)

You will have noticed that our Matthew reading is from chapter 11, in the middle of the gospel.  Jesus has gathered the twelve disciples, on Matthew’s rendering, in the prior chapter.  He has given them directions, marching orders, discipleship for disciples, and has sent them forth.  Now, oddly, in chapter 11, John the Baptist, reappears, with whom the Gospel began long chapters ago.  He emerges, he returns, like a familiar season, or scent.  The Gospel writer wants to be sure that his hearers, his readers remember those who came before.  The community will nod, and knowingly, at his mention.  The cross is foreshadowed in John the Baptist, the greatest of all, says the Lord, before the turn of the ages, he whose head was severed.  He came before, and preached before, and baptized before, and died before Jesus.  Even Jesus, even Jesus, even Jesus had predecessors.  John predeceased Jesus.  A part of our judgement and of our redemption lie in seeing and hearing and sensing our forebears.  Who told you, as Carlyle Marney asked, ‘who told you who you was’?   Our liturgy, our ritual, make sure that we don’t get to Christmas without going through Advent, that we don’t get to the manger without the woods and its trees, that we don’t get to the warmth of cattle lowing and mother and child, without the ice water of the Jordan. The past is not dead.  It is not even past.  Some memories depend on diversity, some rely on unity.  We need both going forward, diversity and unity.

I came in to see my Aunt Hazel one December day.  I was glum.  She asked if my girlfriend had given me the ‘wet mitten’.  She had, but I did not know it because I did not understand the metaphor.  My great Aunt, who worked her adult life as home care giver, was raised on the St. Lawrence River, whence, she often said, ‘we could look down into Canada’.  She and my uncle Bob, a janitor with the electric company, childless themselves, raised my Dad while his single mom worked as a scrub nurse, day and many nights.   She taught my dad to become an excellent cook, at least in the making of apple pies.  Once as a boy my dad asked Aunt Hazel, repeatedly:  ‘where was I before I was born?’  She reportedly replied, irritated, ‘down in Canada boiling soap’.   Anyway, that afternoon at age 16 she asked about my despond with a mysterious metaphor.  The image is of a winter sleigh ride.  The horses pull through the snow.  The young people ride in the hay in the back keeping warm.  They hug, they kiss, they enjoy each other.  Until or unless one gives another a shove away, using the instrument of a hand gloved in a ‘wet mitten’.  It is telling image, and a memorable one, and in that far gone winter afternoon conversation happened to be entirely accurate.  We had split up, my girlfriend and I, at least for 48 hours or so.  We had fallen out of love, at least for a couple of days.  But life went on.  Memory, diverse and utterly personal, of some similar seasons from the past can guide us now.  Life will go on.

On a Wednesday in December 2007, I walked late to the University Christmas party here at Boston University. I entered the packed hall to various greetings and smiles. Greetings a tad to various and more than the usual smiles. Had I seen the ten sleds decorated for competition? No, I had not. More greetings, more smiles, a few little moments of happy laughter. I began to feel followed. In fact, I was. My friend drew me through the crowd. Then, with a woosh of surprise, the throng parted and there before me was Marsh Chapel. I mean a four-foot sled decorated with Marsh Chapel made of marshmallows and ginger bread and licorice and chocolate. A group of administrators from the Metropolitan college had built it. They gathered in kitchens. Singing Christmas tunes they baked and cooked. They sampled the chapel as it came out of the oven. You could tell they loved doing so together. It was an emotional moment for me to see the true affection they have for their chapel, their chapel, and its architectural, symbolic, historical, physical and spiritual centrality in this college community of 40,000. They gathered. They sang. They worked. They ate. They found meaning. In baking the church, they came home to church, in their own way. You could call it a second birth, a new rebirth of basic religious rhythms. For all the sorrow, there is still, on your part, and on mine, and on others’, a listening ear, a willingness to tune in, a hard to articulate longing, a reaching toward…Another.  Memory of some seasons now past can guide us now.  Their gift provided a unifying memory, like that familiar refrain from Howard Thurman:

When the song of the angel is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost

To heal the broken

To feed the hungry
To release the prisoner

To rebuild the nations
To bring peace among brothers and sisters
To make music in the heart.

Adventure in Hope (Isaiah)

A return can bring healing.  Just listen again to the passage from Isaiah, about fertility in the desert, written probably on the return of Israel from bondage in Babylon.  Chapter 35 fits better with later parts of Isaiah.   It is a hymn of hope.  Some hopes depend on diversity, some rely on unity.  We need both going forward, diversity and unity.

The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad,
    the desert shall rejoice and blossom;

Strengthen the weak hands,
    and make firm the feeble knees.
Say to those who are of a fearful heart,
    “Be strong, do not fear!
Here is your God.

Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,
    and the ears of the deaf unstopped;
For waters shall break forth in the wilderness,
    and streams in the desert;

10 And the ransomed of the Lord shall return,
    and come to Zion with singing;
everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;
    they shall obtain joy and gladness,
    and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

 

Today, perhaps, we simply want to pause before the mystery, one of life’s great mysteries, the birth of any idea.  Where do the aspirations of Isaiah 35 come from? The Scripture teaches us: You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength—and mind.  And you love your neighbor as yourself.  For this to come to pass, we shall need:  ‘an educated citizenry fluent in a wise and universal liberalism’ ‘This liberalism will neither play down nor fetishize identity grievances, but look instead for a common and generous language to build on who we are more broadly, and to conceive more boldly what we might be able to accomplish in concert.’ NYT 8/27/18.

Our minister at Riverside Church, some decades ago, William Sloane Coffin, of blessed memory, spoke in aphorisms and in epigrams, to evoke the triumph of the invisible, to speak resurrection.  His voice is one of the diverse, personal and particular signs of hope, the hopeful lights around us.  Each of us has someone different to whom we turn and return, it may be.

On Faith:  faith is being grasped by the power of love.

On Reality:  God is reality.

On Safety:  God provides minimum protection and maximum support.

On Adversity:  We learn most from adversity.

On Sin:  Sin is a state of being.  When the triangle of love, GOD SELF NEIGHBOR, is sundered, there is sin.

On Guilt:  Guilt is the last stronghold of pride.

On Will:  The rational mind is not match for the irrational will.

On Mercy:  There is more mercy in God than there is sin in us.

On Justice:  Pastoral concern for the rich must match prophetic concern for the poor.

On Love:  The religious norm is love

On prejudice:  White racism.  Male chauvinism.  Straight homophobia.  It is what is known and unspoken that causes the most trouble.

On Truth:  Faith gives the strength to confront unpleasant truth.

On Journey:  Faith puts you on the road.  Hope keeps you on the road.  Love is the end of the road.

(He could be acerbic too: I’m not OK and you’re not OK—but that’s OK…And I wish my father in law were not some Liberace…Preachers are egotists with a theological alibi).

On Loss:  When my son died, God’s heart was the first to break.

Those who have seen the recent beautiful film about Fred Rodgers will recognize his time-honored pastoral practices.  His work provided a unifying hope.  He preached from this pulpit, at Baccalaureate, 1992.  He was a Presbyterian minister, you know, a religious man, you know, a practiced pastor, you know:

Pray for people by name.  This is good.

Exercise each day.  This is good.

Read the Scripture in the morning.  This is good.

Play the piano, including banging bass notes, when moved.  This is good.

Talk to people (at work, in transit, by phone, all).  This is good.

Visit people in their homes.  This is good.

In the film abroad, and in the sermon right here, Rogers asked people a question:  who has taught you, believed in you, supported you, and loved you?  His way of being, of teaching, of speaking to children as though they were adults, and to adults as though they were children, is a kind of unifying hope for us, which we sorely need.

Coda

Advent Adventure:  Memory, Hope.  One part diversity and one part unity each.  An ornament or three for memory, a light or three for hope.

Good News:  In the long run, those who accept him as an influence in their lives will experience that comprehensive peace which is the effect of the Christ event itself.

Take a minute, in the quiet, as the organ plays, with the tree listening and within a season of healing, to remember someone who helped bring you to who you are today.

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

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