Advent Sunday 2022: Isaiah 2:1-5, Romans 3:11-end and Matthew 24:36-44
In a poem which we will hear in full this evening, entitled ‘Advent Calendar’, Rowan Williams explores this holy season of expectation, in earthy terms.
He will come like last leaf’s fall - with flayed trees and shrouds of leaves; like frost tracing its icy beauty; like dark - with the bursting red December sun before the night sky envelops us.
Today marks the beginning of a holy season: one which is startling, not sentimental. He will come, will come, / will come like crying in the night writes Rowan in the final stanza.
He will come like child yes; he comes like blood, like breaking as Mary labours to give birth.
This child comes, like every new born, disrupting rhythms and routines; this child breaks us open too, bringing the promise of new life to this death-bound world, marked with winds and mist and the star-snowed fields of sky.
In the cantata we’ll hear tonight, Bach draws us into a midnight hour: where maidens wait with lamps lit; where voices from watchtowers call us to awake from sleep and arise to meet the one who will come, will come, will come.
He will come like a bridegroom; like one who has tenderly sought after his beloved. He will come like one bringing graceful strength and gentle judgement; like one inviting us to share in joy and gladness at a feast.
The music stretches our imaginations with an emotional pull and a spiritual longing: oh to open our hearts and be alert to embrace the wonder of God; a God who calls us beloved.
May lamps burn bright to embrace the one who comes: be alert, be prepared; wake from sleep, the Lord comes and will not delay.
In Christ, there is hope for more: not a confidence in the glittering prizes and illusions of this world; the lesser hopes destined to disappoint. This is a hope in victory over death, in loving and merciful judgement, in new and abundant life.
It is the kind of hope which gives us courage in the face of present struggles and worries. He will come, will come, will come; saying beloved, I am here.
Yet our Gospel reading speaks not of labour pains or the cries of childbirth; nor does it speak of lamps, bridegrooms and wedding feasts.
Instead, we are given a disturbing image of a household being broken into; of the distribution of a stealthy intruder, damage and loss. It challenges our peace and security.
In part this is the scandal of Christ’s coming - like leaf fall, frost or darkness. He will come in a way that is unexpected. He comes like a child - born to wake us from sleep, to bring life out of death.
If Bach takes up the imagery of well-trimmed lamps and the foresight to provide extra oil; he also wakes us up - calling us into a season which we do not embrace lightly or selfishly; but with vigilance and faithfulness.
We are to keep awake; to notice what is going on in our hearts, communities and world. We are to be prepared, responsive, ready. We are to be rested yet alert; trusting in God.
So perhaps the shock of today’s gospel is a challenge to us in a couple of ways.
Are we if not literally asleep, then sleepwalking through life. Are we caught up in busyness or the mundane that we miss the urgency of the moment - moments to console or rejoice, support or love. Wachet auf - sleepers awake - pay attention to what matters.
Jesus doesn’t come in the way we expect - like a child, like a bridegroom and even with stealth. Perhaps we might take that as an invitation to let go of our assumptions and embrace Jesus with joy; knowing that there is no place, no circumstance that is too insignificant, ordinary, complex for God’s love to dwell there.
As we open our hearts in that way - letting go of the pressure to have every detail worked out - we make space for a God who calls us beloved. Sometimes, we have to let go of persistent fears, even the fear of death itself; and the heavy burdens, the many distractions of life or entrenched attitudes about ourselves or others. Those things which get in the way the beauty of God’s desire for us; which stop us loving our neighbours as ourselves.
If the imagery of being robbed is a startling and disturbing one, perhaps in this way we can set it alongside the new life promised and how we make that present in our interactions now.
For Paul, living in God’s daylight meant laying aside - being robbed of - what he calls the works of darkness: from quarrelling to drunkenness, debauchery to jealousy. In doing so we begin to make space for God’s ways of peace. We are called to awaken from the rest and refreshment of sleep to be active in offering hospitality and consolation.
He will come, will come, will come: like leaf’s fall, frost and darkness; he will come like a child, bridegroom and beloved.
He comes wanting us to be prepared for - and to prepare the way for - a transformed world: today we come to God’s banquet and joyful feast where in bread and wine we are called to light and joy, consolation and love.
Here, and at every Eucharist, we are taught God’s ways; ways that we might walk in. Ultimately God will come as arbiter and judge over human hearts and between the nations. We pray now that the Spirit, our advocate and guide, will help us begin that work of turning swords into ploughshares, spears into pruning hooks. Laying aside all that does us harm.
Wachet Auf!
Awake!
Be vigilant and faithful!
Be prepared - with lamps brightly lit!
He will come - drawing us into a holy season.
A season which is startling, not sentimental.
He will come with a birth that leads us through life and death to new life.
Live lightly and intensely, with purpose and love, before we let go of this life; trusting in a greater hope.
This child comes, like every new born, disrupting rhythms and routines; this child breaks us open too, bringing the promise of new life to this death-bound world, marked with winds and mist and the star-snowed fields of sky.
(C) Julie Gittoes 2022
