10 December 2023 - Advent 2: Isaiah 40:1-11, 2 Peter 3:8-15a and Mark 1:1-8
Maria famously begins her list of favourite things with: Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with strings.
Her list goes on: ponies and strudels, doorbells and snowflakes.
In the film, the song occurs in a scene with the children afraid of a thunderstorm; in the original, it’s sung as Maria prepares to leave Mother Abbess to join the Von Trapps.
In both cases, Maria is looking for comfort in ways that are familiar to us.
How many of us had - or still have - that favourite teddy, soft toy or blanket?
Or perhaps it was a favourite story - a piece of music or a film?
Maybe there’s a place we go to find consolation: the hills or coast, a particular cafe or comfy chair.
Or we reach out to a friend, mentor or someone who gets us.
All these things bring comfort in their own way
Psychologists refer to “comforters” as transitional objects - bridging the gap between dependence on a parent to being about to soothe or settle and comfort ourselves.
We might outgrow them over time, but we don’t outgrow the need for comfort. When life ‘stings’ or when we feel sad, thinking of our favourite things can be comforting; then, as Maria puts it, we don’t feel so bad.
Today’s readings are full of cries and comfort.
Words of reassurance are met with a voice that cries out; a voice that calls us to ‘cry out’; and the content of such cries do not sound comfortable.
In our Advent waiting comfort is sought in a wilderness place: a place where the glory of the Lord will be revealed, but so too is our human frailty like withered grass and a faded flower.
Isaiah, like prophets before and after him, knew that the wilderness could be a place of captivity, exile or journey. He and they also knew that wilderness was an experience of loss, trauma or hardship; trust betrayed, justice denied, compassion withheld, penalty paid.
It is in this place that God speaks with tenderness.
It is in such a place that a way is prepared for the Lord.
And the promise of consolation comes: comfort, O comfort my people!
These words come not in the midst of a thunderstorm, or moving from the convent to the world, but to those who are under occupation.
Whether it’s the Babylon of Isaiah or the Rome of John, pleas for comfort are heard in the wilderness places, where human rule and power limit freedoms and flourishing.
We’re invited to go there in Advent: what might we find in the wilderness? Are there hidden joys - or hearts redirected to comfort others?
There is something about the wilderness that strips away our illusions of self-reliance; we’re freed from the dazzling worldly prizes which consume us, or the securities that insulate or separate us from the other : there is a level of vulnerability and risk; we have to wait on God, watching for signs of God’s presence.
That place of vulnerability and risk might also turn our hearts away from selfishness and back towards our first loves. To love God with all that we are - but also to love our neighbour with the love we ourselves are held in.
That turning back is what we mean by repentance: watching and waiting in the wilderness - be it a place or a season - draws us near to the comfort and consolation of God. As we acknowledge what is in our hearts, we are moved to sorrow, penitence and the desire for change which embodies hope.
The wilderness is a place of grappling with all that separates us from God and each other - what in shorthand we call sin. We are confronted with the pain of what that separation, selfishness and sin does to us and to others.
As God draws near to comfort us in that place, knowing the cost and the harm, but also reminding us that we cannot fix this on our own. Our watching and waiting in the wilderness might be a place where we can confess our need and be made whole: delivered from what oppresses us, free from what preoccupies us, forgiven for what burdens us, healed of what harms us..
The wilderness is a ‘levelling place’: we glimpse a different kind of landscape. Isaiah speaks of valleys being lifted up and hills made low; of the uneven and rough places made smooth; the crooked path made straight.
Isaish paints a picture which allows us to reimagine the landscape of the world: not to take away its beauty, awe and wonder, but to enable us to see where we stand - to see what the world could be like. It is on this even highway that all flesh shall see God; all flesh be restored, healed, saved.
Voices cry out where there is inequality, oppression and injustice; voices cry out at our human frailty. Voices also cry out for justice, righteousness, healing, freedom, renewal; for penitence, faithfulness, loving mercy, forgiveness and a new hope.
Philip Kolin’s poem describes John as a prophet of fire and repentance. His voice is a flame igniting something in us - the waters he stood in, waves engraved with grace. Sin and woe are plunged into the darkness of those waters where life is rebirthed towards the light. Each honeyed syllable of his message opens hearts and unburdens souls.
Yet he knew that he was preparing the way for the one who was coming into the world: the one who fulfilled the hopes of the prophets - a light to lighten all nations.
In Jesus, God draws near to us in the wilderness, when life stings; when we feel sad and need comfort. In flesh of our flesh, he is our comforter, coming to feed us; gather us up and carry us; leading us out of a wilderness to a more level place.
This is the good news with which Mark chooses to open his gospel: this good news is a regime change amidst all the empires, powers and dominions of this world.
In his poem “The British”, the late Benjamin Zephaniah spoke about the sheer difference and blended life of our nation. Leaving those ingredients to simmer, he spoke of how, as they mix, languages flourish, binding them together with English.
He allows for cooling time and suggests we add some unity, understanding and respect for the future, serve with justice and enjoy. He notes all ingredients are equally important - to treat one as better leaves a bitter taste. He offers us a warning too - which might be a wilderness levelling place - but also a comforter of what is possible there.
Warning: an unequal spread of
justice will damage the people
and cause pain. Give justice and equality
to all.
May this Advent be one where we find comfort in the desert, for the sake of God's kingdom.
