The Great Intrusion:
Rev. Eugene N. Nelson, Jr.
The Community Church of Sebastopol
November 30, 2008 First Sunday of Advent
Isaiah 64: 1-9; Psalm 80:1-7
I once heard a well-known preacher, a faithful and respected man of God, say this: "My problem with God has been God's timidity, God's quietness." Now, when I heard that, I found myself thinking, gosh, if someone like him finds God timid and quiet, what hope do I have of ever hearing anything the almighty might say? And then I came across this from another preacher whom I admire: "Something in me wishes that God was always present, visible, clear as day standing beside us. But that's not the way it is with the living God. Sometimes there is the blinding flash of light, the unmistakable voice from above, but in my experience God speaks most often through whispers, not shouts. God is found in the shadows, rather than appearing as a blinding light. Sometimes the whispers are very low whispers and the shadows are very dark shadows. In fact, sometimes I am not that sure of God's words or will." So again, if that's true for someone like him, what chance does someone like me have of ever understanding God's words or will.
The words of these two preachers remind me of some words spoken by yet one more prominent theologian, Woody Allen. He said, "It's not that I hate God. I have nothing against God. I think the worst you could say of God is that he is an underachiever." Does that ever feel like your experience of God? Do you find that it seems like God never quite lives up to God's potential, too timid, too silent?
I believe the prophet, Isaiah, was struggling with this over 2500 years ago. "O that you would tear open the heavens and come down!" The prophet pleads for, indeed demands, some dramatic divine action. "God you did it before. We need for you to do it again." It was a desperate time for the people of Israel. They had just returned from exile in Babylon. The Temple, Jerusalem, the country were all in ruins. It was a time of political and, even worse, religious disorientation. How could God have allowed this to happen to us? Is God punishing us, is God angry with us, has God turned away and hidden his face from us? This was no time for a timid or silent God. "God, do something dramatic! Come down and fix this!"
Ever feel that way? Ever feel like maybe God has abandoned you, turned away, forgotten you? Ever feel like just at that moment when you need God to speak some word of hope and encouragement; late at night with a sick child; holding the hand of a loved one who has died; wondering how you are going to pay those bills next week – just when you need that word, God chooses to be silent? "God, I kind of need you now." "O that you would open the heavens and come down." Or, in the words of the Psalmist, "Restore us, O God. Let your face shine that we may be saved." The yearning, the hoping, of the people of God really hasn't changed much in 2500 years.
This might be kind of a tough way to begin the season of Advent - with weeping and wailing and arguing with a seemingly reluctant God. I mean, what ever happened to "Joy to the World"? A strange way to begin Advent, and yet perhaps, a powerful way. Because, I believe, the prophet and the psalmist want to jolt us out of our apathy, our despair, our resigned acceptance that there is nothing new under the sun. Just at the moment when it seems the world is determined to grind every hope into powder and ashes, they come to us with the invasive, intrusive news that it's time to think about fresh possibilities for deliverance and human wholeness. That's Advent, you see. Not the message that everything is falling to pieces. And not the message that God is in his heaven and therefore everything is just peachy with the world. No, in the words of James Kay of Princeton Theological Seminary, "The message of Advent is that when heaven itself is spinning into oblivion, when every fixed star on the moral compass is wavering, when all hell is breaking loose on earth, just then, your redemption is drawing near. When we least expect it, when there is no evidence for it, God's power comes into this godless world in ways the world itself could never predict or foresee."
Though that sounds good, there is still this issue with which we began, one I think we struggle with: God's whispers in the shadows where it can be so hard for us to hear and see; our longing, our yearning for a God who will make his presence known, leaving no room for doubt. Enough of this God who seems to enjoy nothing so much as a good game of hide and seek - we seeking, God hiding. The prophet, the psalmist, and I expect many of us, want nothing so much as some dramatic, easy to see, divine intrusion into human life: "God, come down, shake things up, turn things around, no more doubt." And then it's Advent.
Sarah Rossiter has written a poem she simply titles, "Owls,"
Before the solstice in December when
trees stand stripped on granite ground,
I hear them in the woods at dusk,
their hollow hooting back and forth,
the courtship of the Great Horned Owls,
in this, the darkest time of the year,
light draining from an empty sky,
but still they sing, response and call,
their slow duet, notes rise and fall,
and something deep within me stirs,
a new beginning even now.
A new beginning. Perhaps our eyes have been half shut because we are tired of looking, or half open because we fear to see too much, or perhaps they are blurred with tears because yesterday, today and tomorrow are filled with the same pain. For us, a new beginning.
Perhaps our spirits are just plain tired, dimmed by familiarity, numbed by hopeless cases and lost causes, convinced nothing we do can ever make a difference. For us, a new beginning.
Perhaps we just don't want to hear anymore from preachers, prophets or politicians. We've grown weary of words, all words are starting to sound alike. As Thomas Merton once said, with a poet's brevity and wit, "These days to say 'God is love,' is kind of like saying, 'Eat Wheaties.'" For us in our world weariness, a new beginning.
The prophet prays for something dramatic. What we get is a birth. Pretty common stuff. And this is what most of the world saw - just the birth of another baby to a hopelessly poor peasant couple. Yet for those who were listening, those who were leaning toward the light, it was nothing less than a divine intrusion, a presence born among us, a new beginning.
I might have misspoken earlier. I spoke of this hide and seek game where we seek and God always seems to hide. But, what if it's reversed? What if, in this birth we anticipate, we meet a God who always seems to be looking for us? Time and time again, as the Bible tells it, when we human beings have stormed off to pout like spoiled children, or slammed the door in a huff like angry lovers, or hidden within the shadows of our shame, this God has come looking for us, has come wanting to begin the conversation again, breaking our silence in the name of steadfast love. Not us trying to break through to God, but God attempting to break through to us.
Welcome to Advent! Welcome to signs of hope we can fasten on to and encourage, welcome to a world just shot through with possibility for recovery, renewal and redemption. Welcome to hope even at a moment when hope seems utterly fantastic.
We want something dramatic, something spectacular, some display of divine power and might that no one can miss. And that may or may not be what God chooses to do. But what the prophet and psalmist do tell us is that we must keep opening our lives and our souls with active anticipation. What they tell us is that God is up to something and we had best be ready. What they tell us is not to lose heart, but rather to live with our hearts open so that compassion, caring and God's reckless love can find a way into our hearts and into the heart of our world. And it may be something dramatic, but it may be a glimpse, a whisper, a shadow - something about that star...or in that stable right over there. So let us not, we whose lives are so full of noise, sights and sounds, lights and thunder of our own creation, let us not miss those moments when heaven opens up and we find something - someone - new in our midst. For if this season says nothing else it says this...those moments will come. Some closing words from Ann Weems:
It is not over, this birthing.
There are always newer skies into which
God can throw stars.
When we begin to think
that we can predict the Advent of God,
that we can box the Christ in a stable in Bethlehem,
that's just the time that God will be born.
In a place we can't imagine and won't believe.
Those who wait for God
Watch with their hearts and not their eyes,
Listening, always listening,
For angel words.