December 1 – First Sunday of Advent
Isaiah 40.1-5
Matthew 24.36-44
Discomfort Zone
(Getting a Handel on Advent – I)
First Sunday of Advent
For the season of Advent this year, I’m going to steal a page from George Frideric Handel, who in turn stole a page from a wealthy and arrogant aristocrat named Charles Jennens, who in turn likely stole a page from his own minister, so what goes around comes around. Handel’s grand oratorio Messiah will be sung and performed by choirs and orchestras alike between now and Christmas; it is one of the most beloved classical traditions of the season. Charles Jennens was a wealthy country gentleman from England’s Leicestershire region, and he presented Handel with a collection of biblical passages that described the advent, birth, passion and death of Jesus, and suggested that the composer use the material for an oratorio. And, since Messiah is built entirely on biblical texts, my guess is that Jennens had a little help from someone in finding just the right texts to pick out of the scriptures, particularly the Old Testament; if I had to guess, I’d say he was assisted by his own parish minister. So you might say I’m going to borrow from the librettist as much as he borrowed from his own clergy. I want to spend Advent, from a sermonic perspective anyway, preaching from the biblical texts that Handel himself put to music for Messiah, and see what this eighteenth century musical masterpiece might have to say to us in 2024.
[Opening bars of “Comfort Ye…”]The music matches the mood. You can hear the slow and gentle rhythmic heartbeat pulse as the oratorio begins with its reassuring counsel of comfort. “Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God. Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her that her warfare is accomplished, and her iniquity is pardoned;” Isaiah chapter 40, verse 1. The Old Testament book of Isaiah is divided into two distinct sections. Chapters 1 through 39 contain prophecies that bring harsh words of judgment against Babylon, Assyria, Ethiopia, Egypt, and yes, Israel herself. But when we turn from chapter 39 to 40, it is as if a new day has dawned. The prophet’s mood turns from judgment and condemnation to redemption, salvation, hope, and yes, comfort. It is very likely that we are looking at two different books when we look at Isaiah, and certainly two different writers, but somehow they are both attributed to the same prophet. So it is that the beginning of Handel’s Messiah is also the beginning of the story of a coming salvation, and perhaps, even a coming savior. The passage Claudia read this morning is especially rich; its brief five verses contain no fewer than three pieces from Messiah: Comfort Ye, Every Valley, And the Glory of the Lord. So much of the second part of Isaiah – informally called Second Isaiah – has been called on to prefigure Jesus’ life and ministry. From chapter 42: “He will not cry or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street; a bruised reed he will not break and a dimly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice.” From Isaiah 53, also borrowed by Handel for Messiah: “All we like sheep have gone astray; we have all returned to our own way, and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all.” And from chapter 60: “Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you… nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.” II Isaiah is rich in images of the coming days of deliverance, of redemption, and of peace.
Still, it would be more than a little negligent of me if I were to begin this Advent season, or any Advent season with nothing but comfort, sweetness and light. As you and I have seen before, every single first Sunday of Advent – every single first Sunday of Advent – the lectionary points us, via the New Testament, to disaster, doom and destruction. It doesn’t matter which gospel it comes from – this year it comes from Luke – but every year we begin Advent with what is called “the little apocalypse,” a vision of war and desolation in the not-too-distant future. “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.” So which do you prefer to begin your holiday season? The desolating sacrilege of the apocalypse, or Isaiah’s gentle heartbeat pulsing with the words, “Comfort ye?”
Earlier this week I started a book by writer Charles King titled Every Valley: The Desperate Lives and Troubled Times That Made Handel’s Messiah. It places the oratorio in the social, political and cultural context of Handel’s day and speaks to why it has become such a beloved piece of music across the ages. Early in the introduction the writer makes this observation:
“Wade into the words of the Messiah, and it isn’t hard to find a kind of message in a bottle: a reflection on some of the largest questions of human life, written at a moment – warring, worried, and somehow just wrong – when people could feel the urgency of answering them. In an age supposedly governed by progress, why do the nations so furiously rage together? Why do people concoct vain and bizarre versions of the truth? What do we do with the knowledge of our own brokenness – our listless wandering, astray like sheep – and the trail of blood that our actions, and our obliviousness, will leave in the historical record? Adrift in a maddening world, is there really a way to live the advice that Handel set to song from the book of Isaiah: “Lift up thy voice with strength; lift it up, be not afraid… Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee?”
It does not take a particularly acute ear to recognize that some of the questions raised in the late 18th century are not that far removed from the worries and anxieties of our own day.
The tension between the message of comfort and assurance and the on-the-ground experience of both Handel’s day and our own is not just palpable, it is reflected in the two scripture messages this morning. On this first Sunday of Advent, clergy and congregation alike find ourselves sorely tempted to jump right into Christmas, skipping the preparatory Advent path altogether. Every few years I am asked why we are not singing the old familiar carols as Advent begins. “Christmas music is everywhere except in church!” Well, this is absolutely correct, because merchandisers want to put us in the best possible mood to open our wallets and purses for the next four weeks. But the church wants – I would say the church needs – to make room for Advent, room for all those questions we just heard, as we sit for a while in the turmoil of a world that still awaits redemption. Yes, the temptation is strong to surrender to the culture and start singing It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas with everyone else while there is still leftover turkey and gravy in the refrigerator. However, the Church insists on taking our time; the Messiah will come, absolutely, but he will come in his own time.
I think all of us yearn for this vision of comfort, peace and redemption Isaiah describes, all the while we are watching the news from Ukraine and the Middle East and having our hearts broken by multiple mass shootings and opening our utility bills this winter while facing the end of an all-too-brief period of political comity. I think the words of Jesus that we hear at the start of every Advent, at least in part, constitute a recognition – an uncomfortable, painful recognition, but an important one nonetheless, that these things will always be with us. Remember, the writer of I Isaiah spent 39 chapters in the throes of war and destruction before we are allowed those opening verses of comfort, peace and pardon.
Both of our morning’s scripture lessons, in tandem with the words that Charles Jennens borrowed from his parish minister and passed along to Handel, suggest the need to sit with our discomfort for a while longer. We can always take the easy way out and ignore it, but that doesn’t do us or our circumstances any good. Denial is really just delay, and as darkness – only one Advent candle this week, folks – as darkness eventually gives way to light, so our discomfort gives way to something larger, stronger and greater than whatever ails us. But it takes time. In the church, we wait for four weeks – not even four weeks, as Advent this year is about as brief as it could possibly be. Still, maybe God is giving us a little time and a little extra grace in a year that has seemed more than a little extra difficult. If so, let this be the first Christmas gift of the season.