The Coming
Sermon
Today, as well as being Advent Sunday is also the first day of year 3 of the Revised Common Lectionary, which means that we'll follow mainly one gospel for the whole year. This year is the year of Luke, so until this time next year, the gospel reading most weeks will be from Luke's gospel. There are some snippets from other gospels during the year, especially from John's gospel, but most of the gospel readings will be from Luke.
And we've started today with what I consider to be a particularly difficult reading! All that doom and gloom about the end of the world, the coming of the Day of the Lord. It starts in Luke chapter 17, where it all sounds quite frighteningly random. There we read: In that night there will be two in one bed; one will be taken, the other left. There will be two women grinding together; one will be taken, the other left (v. 35).
But the criteria determining who will be taken and who will be left don't seem particularly clear. Luke is always on the side of the outcasts, the gentiles, women, tax collectors, publicans, sinners. Being a gentile himself, and therefore to some extent knowing what it feels like not to be part of the inner circle, he's much more concerned with outsiders than any of the other gospel writers. And so nothing is said either in that passage or in today's passage, about good people or bad people. In today's passage we read: It will come upon all who dwell upon the face of the whole earth. As Christians, we're not told how to avoid it, we're simply warned to keep alert, to be on the look-out.
Christians have always believed that our present experience of God is incomplete, but will one day be fulfilled. St. Paul put it succinctly: Now I see in a glass darkly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, then I shall understand fully, even as I have been fully understood. This hope, the hope to see God as he really is, has taken many different forms throughout history.
In times of oppression and persecution, there's been a sense of crisis and an imminent expectation of the end. An image has prevailed of cosmic violence, destroying this sinful world so that God can begin again. The sort of terrifying image found in today's gospel passage.
But at other times, usually at times of peace and plenty, there's been more of a sense of the world growing old, running out of resources, coming gradually to an end. And in recent years, since the world wars passed into history and the nuclear threat began to fade, this type of image, a kind of faded green image, has been more on people's agenda.
But this present time has perhaps a unique blending of those two ideas. We're aware, perhaps as never before, of the vast speed with which we're using up the earth's natural resources. But in the early years of this new millenium, there are also uneasy feelings of doom, of the possibility of a cataclysmic end to this present age. And with the knowledge that some world powers reportedly have the capability of eradicating every human being from the earth, those feelings of doom may not be so far-fetched.
Advent can be quite a sombre time in many ways. In the Church's year, it's regarded as a time for reflection, for stepping back and preparing for the coming of God into human life at Christmas. If any of us are to prepare for the coming of God, then penitence must surely form a part of that preparation. Hence the liturgical colour during Advent is purple.
But Advent is pretty sombre in the secular world, too. All that anxiety about choosing the right Christmas presents for the right people. About writing and posting the cards. About getting in food for a feast. About which relations to be with over Christmas, without giving offence to any. About which parties to attend, and which to avoid. And there's also the uneasy awareness that Christmas can be quite difficult to handle, for more relationships break down at Christmas than at any other time of the year.
So with all this potential misery, what exactly is the Advent hope? Do Christians only look forward to the Nativity story, to the babe in the manger, or is there more to it than that?
In Jesus, the kingdom of God comes, the Day of the Lord is here. Jesus empties himself in the self-giving of love, to live and die a human being. He calls himself the Son of Man, which can be interpreted as mortal man, man born to die. Yet in his living of his human life, he embodies God's eternal life. The God within him isn't a tiny spark, but fully and gloriously fills him, so that in his presence the kingdom of God comes.
After death we too will experience God fully and gloriously filling us. Our tiny God-spark will become an all-consuming and healing flame.
The Christian hope, the Advent hope, is that that wonderful resurrection experience will one day encompass the entire universe. Now we experience it in part, but then, in full. Now we see through a glass darkly, but then, face to face.
And despite the scary language, this hope is embodied in today's passage. The world may be shaken to its very foundations, but what's shaking, is the old way of doing things. The old way of oppression, and denial of human rights, and accepting that many people in our world may die of hunger. As the kingdom of God in all its fullness draws nearer, all that will be shaken, and must be left behind. The new way is God's way of justice and peace for all, of freedom from fear, of freedom from hunger, of the satisfying of basic human needs.
The fig tree is a parable of all that. In winter it might seem like it's dead and gone, but it can't be stopped from blooming, for the new life is within it, simply waiting to burst into flower.
God, in his love for us, promises that some time, the whole earth, despite its apparent deadness and evil, will burst into flower. Will burst into the flowering of the kingdom of God.
"I feel the earth move under my feet, I feel the sky tumbling down" sounds like violent and scary language, but actually, it's the lyric to a love song. Perhaps today's passage of Advent hope is God's love song to us.
God of love and promise,
I have to hang onto your glorious promises through the dark times. And through this somewhat dark time of Advent, waiting for your light to gloriously burst forth at Christmas, there's time and opportunity for me to search out the darkness within me.
God of love, the scary language used in the New Testament more than describes how I sometimes feel about my inner self. Enable me to hang onto the vision of light, so that I may allow you to penetrate my darkness and so be brought by you to your kingdom.
I ask this through him for whom I wait, Jesus Christ our Lord.
And we've started today with what I consider to be a particularly difficult reading! All that doom and gloom about the end of the world, the coming of the Day of the Lord. It starts in Luke chapter 17, where it all sounds quite frighteningly random. There we read: In that night there will be two in one bed; one will be taken, the other left. There will be two women grinding together; one will be taken, the other left (v. 35).
But the criteria determining who will be taken and who will be left don't seem particularly clear. Luke is always on the side of the outcasts, the gentiles, women, tax collectors, publicans, sinners. Being a gentile himself, and therefore to some extent knowing what it feels like not to be part of the inner circle, he's much more concerned with outsiders than any of the other gospel writers. And so nothing is said either in that passage or in today's passage, about good people or bad people. In today's passage we read: It will come upon all who dwell upon the face of the whole earth. As Christians, we're not told how to avoid it, we're simply warned to keep alert, to be on the look-out.
Christians have always believed that our present experience of God is incomplete, but will one day be fulfilled. St. Paul put it succinctly: Now I see in a glass darkly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, then I shall understand fully, even as I have been fully understood. This hope, the hope to see God as he really is, has taken many different forms throughout history.
In times of oppression and persecution, there's been a sense of crisis and an imminent expectation of the end. An image has prevailed of cosmic violence, destroying this sinful world so that God can begin again. The sort of terrifying image found in today's gospel passage.
But at other times, usually at times of peace and plenty, there's been more of a sense of the world growing old, running out of resources, coming gradually to an end. And in recent years, since the world wars passed into history and the nuclear threat began to fade, this type of image, a kind of faded green image, has been more on people's agenda.
But this present time has perhaps a unique blending of those two ideas. We're aware, perhaps as never before, of the vast speed with which we're using up the earth's natural resources. But in the early years of this new millenium, there are also uneasy feelings of doom, of the possibility of a cataclysmic end to this present age. And with the knowledge that some world powers reportedly have the capability of eradicating every human being from the earth, those feelings of doom may not be so far-fetched.
Advent can be quite a sombre time in many ways. In the Church's year, it's regarded as a time for reflection, for stepping back and preparing for the coming of God into human life at Christmas. If any of us are to prepare for the coming of God, then penitence must surely form a part of that preparation. Hence the liturgical colour during Advent is purple.
But Advent is pretty sombre in the secular world, too. All that anxiety about choosing the right Christmas presents for the right people. About writing and posting the cards. About getting in food for a feast. About which relations to be with over Christmas, without giving offence to any. About which parties to attend, and which to avoid. And there's also the uneasy awareness that Christmas can be quite difficult to handle, for more relationships break down at Christmas than at any other time of the year.
So with all this potential misery, what exactly is the Advent hope? Do Christians only look forward to the Nativity story, to the babe in the manger, or is there more to it than that?
In Jesus, the kingdom of God comes, the Day of the Lord is here. Jesus empties himself in the self-giving of love, to live and die a human being. He calls himself the Son of Man, which can be interpreted as mortal man, man born to die. Yet in his living of his human life, he embodies God's eternal life. The God within him isn't a tiny spark, but fully and gloriously fills him, so that in his presence the kingdom of God comes.
After death we too will experience God fully and gloriously filling us. Our tiny God-spark will become an all-consuming and healing flame.
The Christian hope, the Advent hope, is that that wonderful resurrection experience will one day encompass the entire universe. Now we experience it in part, but then, in full. Now we see through a glass darkly, but then, face to face.
And despite the scary language, this hope is embodied in today's passage. The world may be shaken to its very foundations, but what's shaking, is the old way of doing things. The old way of oppression, and denial of human rights, and accepting that many people in our world may die of hunger. As the kingdom of God in all its fullness draws nearer, all that will be shaken, and must be left behind. The new way is God's way of justice and peace for all, of freedom from fear, of freedom from hunger, of the satisfying of basic human needs.
The fig tree is a parable of all that. In winter it might seem like it's dead and gone, but it can't be stopped from blooming, for the new life is within it, simply waiting to burst into flower.
God, in his love for us, promises that some time, the whole earth, despite its apparent deadness and evil, will burst into flower. Will burst into the flowering of the kingdom of God.
"I feel the earth move under my feet, I feel the sky tumbling down" sounds like violent and scary language, but actually, it's the lyric to a love song. Perhaps today's passage of Advent hope is God's love song to us.
God of love and promise,
I have to hang onto your glorious promises through the dark times. And through this somewhat dark time of Advent, waiting for your light to gloriously burst forth at Christmas, there's time and opportunity for me to search out the darkness within me.
God of love, the scary language used in the New Testament more than describes how I sometimes feel about my inner self. Enable me to hang onto the vision of light, so that I may allow you to penetrate my darkness and so be brought by you to your kingdom.
I ask this through him for whom I wait, Jesus Christ our Lord.
