November 27, 2022 – First Sunday of Advent
Isaiah 40.1-5
Matthew 24.36-44
Discomfort Zone
(Getting a Handle on Messiah -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, and 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 direction anyway, by 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 2022.
[Opening bars of “Comfort Ye…”]
The music matches the mood. You can hear the slow and gentle heartbeat pulses of the strings 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 actually divided into two distinct sections. Chapters 1 through 39 contain prophecies that are 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’s 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 person. 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. Consider how 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 (and 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 Avent – 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 Mathew – 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. “About that day and hour so one knows, not even the angels of heaven… For as in the days of Noah, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. For as in those days before the flood they were eating and drinking and marrying… they knew nothing until the flood came and swept them away, so too will be the coming of the Son of Man.” Now Barbara Jan, I have to say you had it easy this morning, because Matthew’s is the mildest of these apocalyptic visions. Here is how Luke puts it: “Take heed to yourselves lest your hearts be weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and cares of this life, and that day come upon you suddenly like a snare; for it will come upon everyone who dwells on the face of the earth.” And Mark – well, Mark is the scariest of all, and what is even scarier is that Mark, as the earliest recorded gospel, likely has the most accurate recall of Jesus’ actual words: “And brother will deliver up brother to death, and the father his child, and children will rise against their parents and have them put to death; and you will all be hated for my name’s sake… In those days there will be such tribulation that has not been see from the beginning of creation until now, and never will be. And if the Lord had not shortened the days, no human being would be saved.”
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?”
We really do want to jump into the comfortable familiarity of Advent and Christmas, don’t we? I recall last year at this time you and I were preparing to finally celebrate our first season back together since the pandemic began, and then what happened? The omicron variant went blazing through our homes, our neighborhoods and our churches, we had to cancel our much-anticipated cantata, and the Christmas Eve congregation was the smallest it had been in anyone’s memory. Wisely – and rightly – so. And I’m not certain if this was a conscious musical choice – knowing Karli, nothing happens by happenstance alone – but the anthem we just heard, “Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burning” not only echoes Jesus’ warning to be ready for whatever might be lurking like a thief in the night, but that we still need to be prepared and cautious and careful, even as the season encourages us to be jolly and convivial.
The tension between the two scripture messages this morning is felt by parish and pastor alike. On this first Sunday of Advent, I and every one of my colleagues finds powerfully compelling the temptation to jump right into Christmas, skipping the preparatory Advent path altogether. I’ll never forget an animated debate I had not too long ago with someone who was put off by the fact that we weren’t singing all the old familiar Christmas carols in church by the beginning of December. “Why do you think young people don’t come to church any more?” he wanted to know. “Christmas music is everywhere except in church!” Well, that’s kind of my point, and I’ll admit, I was less-than-pastoral in response; after all, I seriously doubt young people are going to come flocking back to church just because we decide to sing Silent Night on the Second Sunday of Advent. But still, the temptation is strong to surrender to the culture and start singing Silver Bells with everyone else while there is still leftover turkey and gravy in the refrigerator.
But as it’s not just church folks. I think all of us yearn for that vision of comfort, peace and redemption Isaiah describes, all the while we are watching the news from Ukraine and having our hearts broken by multiple mass shootings and opening our utility bills after a cold month and paying upwards of $3 a pound for last Thursday’s bird while facing the likely end of a far-too-brief two years of relative political comity. Wars and rumors of wars indeed. 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.
I wonder if we 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 – 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 – especially this year, since with Christmas falling on a Sunday, Advent is as long as it can possibly be! 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 it be the first Christmas gift of the season.