The Gospel reading for this week seems both strangely out of place and frighteningly pertinent. Frighteningly pertinent in a week where the 24-hour news cycle pumped out story after story of protests breaking out across the nation,—radiating, but almost detached—from the epicenter of Ferguson, Missouri and the shooting death of eighteen year old Michael Brown. But this reading seems strangely out of place for Advent one, the first Sunday in our journey toward the birth of the Christ child, the first Sunday of this new church year. Next week, Advent two, the lectionary reading is what you would expect for a beginning, Mark 1:1-8. It will even start out “The beginning…” But this week, the first Sunday of a year devoted to the Gospel of Mark, we start here, close to the end of Mark, with this strange and dramatic reading about the moon darkening, the stars falling, and the powers in the heaven being shaken.
As I was watching TV on Monday night and my brainless sitcom was interrupted by the announcement of the grand jury decision, as I read the paper or listened to NPR, the words of this Gospel reading kept running through my mind. I’m not going to share my opinion this morning because, quite frankly, I don’t know enough. I’ve never been to Ferguson, Missouri. I’m not a person of color. I wasn’t with the Grand Jury during the trial, I have read very little of the evidence. I don’t know who is at fault, who is to blame, if any one person could be held accountable. What I will say is that I see no winners. And I see something wrong with a world where an eighteen year old could feel so disillusioned with his life that he would charge a police officer, a world where a police officer could be so fearful that he would sense a threat from an unarmed eighteen year old. Was this an isolated incident, it would have been tragic. But the hard statistics are black teens are six times more likely to be incarcerated than white teens. People of color make up twenty-five percent of the U.S. population and sixty percent of the prison population. Whether or not it was a factor in this specific incident, racism is real, and it is pervasive, and it can be fatal.
But this lectionary text was not chosen as a commentary on world affairs, it was chosen for Advent. A season more closely associated with calm, with candles twinkling, with preparing for the birth of a baby. And yet, every year, Advent one starts us out with these strange apocalyptic texts proclaiming the end of the world. Keep awake! Advent one proclaims, keep awake because you do not know the day or the hour in which these things will take place, in which the Son of Man will come in glory.
But the fact that the readings for advent one always seem jarringly out of place is precisely the point of starting advent with them. Because the birth of the one we are waiting for is just as jarringly out of place and unexpected. The prophets proclaimed a Messiah would come, and a baby was born. The stars foretold the birth of a king, and pointed the way to a stable. Herod feared a threat to his kingdom, from an infant attended by cattle and shepherds.
And yet, this baby, away in a manger, lowly infant so tender and mild, sleep in heavenly peace, this baby would shake the foundations of the earth, cause the sun to darken and the stars to bow, this baby would be everything the prophets proclaimed, more than Herod could have dared to fear, greater than the message of salvation spelled in the stars.
The good news of Advent is that Christ comes in the middle of everything. In the middle of the mess of creation, in the middle of the mess of a stable, in the middle of the mess of our lives, that is precisely where the Christ child is born. Christ comes not in a place carefully prepared for him, but right into the brokenness and the heartache and the pain of a world in need of salvation. Starting Advent here reminds us that salvation is not something we do for ourselves; it is grace. Grace from the God who’s hands formed creation, and who’s hands are still at work molding and shaping and creating our world today. No matter how messy or broken or painful things look. How out of control, how fragmented; the promise of Advent is that Christ comes in the middle of all of that and makes all things new.
The world Jesus was born into was not ready for a savior. Herod was a brutal dictator, Mary was a poor, teenage mother, Israel was conquered by the Romans. Rioting, struggle, oppression, and violence were common and real. It was no place to raise the Christ child. But it is where a savior was born. Because God does not wait for humanity to clean up its mess before God sends salvation. In fact, God sends salvation in the midst of humanity’s mess. In the form on an infant unexpected. In the form of a barefoot prophet. In the form of a king on a cross.
So the question for us this advent season is not what do we have to do to prepare for the Christ child, but where is the Christ child already present? Where is God’s reign already being felt? Where is the kingdom already being made new? And how can we join in the work of God’s kingdom on earth?
The promise of Advent is that in the middle of what looks like ending, God is bringing a new beginning. It promises God comes not in scrubbed up, painted over, ready-to-go places, but a God who comes where God is needed most. And, more importantly, Advent promises that this new world is not just a future promise; it is a present reality. Advent promises that when you are feeling broken, hurt, lost, or alone, God is there. God is with us in every aspect of our lives, in every place where God is needed.
Like I mentioned in the children’s sermon, this year for Advent, I invite you to be open to the presence of this promise. Open to see the new and unexpected places in which God is making the world new. Maybe in big ways, but also in small ways. Advent is in peaceful protests in the midst of violence; advent is also in the sound of children, the quiet of the snow, in the smile of a friend. Advent is in the women of the co-op, sharing what they have and finding abundance in each other. Advent is in folk who mop the church, straighten the hallways, bake pies, and bring napkins, so that our building is ready to welcome guests. Advent is the phone calls you make to each other when someone is not at church, the rides to worship, the prayers and the praise and the promise. Advent is in the social justice team advocating for the neighborhood, the property committee fixing the garage door in the snow, thirty-seven fabric bundles for women in developing countries, all of these and more are promises of advent in our midst, of Christ coming to make all things new, and of our hands, our feet, our hearts and voices at work in the process of creation.
As I was reflecting on the sermon for this week, I came across a quote from theologian Henri Nouwen. The article had nothing to do with advent or with current world events, it was actually about an art exhibit in Texas, but it seemed amazingly pertinent to this coming of Advent. Nouwen said, “You are Christian only so long as you constantly pose critical questions to the society you live in… so long as you stay unsatisfied with the status quo and keep saying that a new world is coming.” Advent promises us that a new world is coming, and yes is already here. So stay awake, keep watch, because Christ is in our midst. Amen.
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