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Sermons at Saint Mary's
The First Sunday of Advent There are moments in my life when I long for something deeper, something larger, something much more than I already have or know. I feel this way when I stand before the raging ocean, or gaze upward toward the expanse of a pitch black night sky, or watch the wings of a great blue heron catch the last rays of sun as it traces its ancient path to its rookery. It is then that I feel a desire for something I cannot name. The longing is never far away, but this time of year, in Advent, it becomes all the more intense. As the light ebbs early with the approach of winter, as the myriad distractions mount in holiday preparation, as the prophets speak the words of comfort and judgment, I know I want something that is beyond my reach. It is a kind of hunger, this longing, a kind of emptiness. And oftentimes, it makes me turn to ready-made things to satisfy it, things to fill my belly, things to fill my mind, things to fill my heart. For a while I can sate the longing with these substitutes. But it always come back. Even more intensely. Is it the same way with you? In this season when expectations are so high, and disappointment so close at hand. When everything around us seems to mitigate against the serenity and holiness we desperately seek and need. Do you feel what I am feeling? Do you sense in yourself this inexplicable aching for what only God can provide? In this time of war, and terrorism, and economic uncertainty, and global insecurity, do you hear what I hear in myself, a voice crying out in the wilderness? A hope for healing and salvation, for peace and protection, for mercy and deliverance? If it is this way for you, as it is for me, then together, we can take great assurance from the prophets of old. They, too, lived, in an age of violence and uncertainty. They, too, lived in the shadow of desperation and strife. But in their hearts, they had this same yearning, this same desire for something beyond their imagining. In their hearts, they beheld the vision of God. And what a vision it was. As we read in Isaiah, it was a world where the lifeless desert bloomed radiant with flowers; a world where the eyes of the blind were opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped...where the lame would leap like a deer, and the dumb would sing for joy. In the very place where blood had been split for eons in humankind's warring madness, there would be a kingdom of justice and peace. And there would be no more sorrow and sighing, only joy and gladness. The vision never died. It was there in the heart of John the Baptist. There too in the heart of Jesus, whose whole life and destiny was to make this vision a reality, "where the blind receive their sight, where the lame walk, and lepers are cleansed, where the dead are raised, and the poor are given hope. Is this not the world we long for, too? And if this longing persists in our hearts, can it not also be this vision of God the prophets beheld? Is not this vision the very presence of God in the depths of our souls? Sometimes, I believe it is. But, then, I have my doubts. Too easily, I am distracted. Too, readily, I place my allegiance in th principalities and powres of this world. Too often, I become impatient. It is too hard to wait. It is too difficult to stave off the hunger. And so, I eat, I consume, I become a consumer, and trade a part of my soul in the bargain. The mystery of it all boils down to this. I am hungry. I need to eat. My appetite is fierce and unrelenting. Yet, as Simone Weil, the French philosopher, wrote: "Here below, we must be longing." This desire I feel so intensely felt in Advent, written large in the words of the prophets, stirred again by this vision of God. I wait by virtue of the still small faith in the promise of the One who comes to save us, the promise of the One who comes to give bread so that we will never be hungry again, of the One who leads us on the Holy Way back to our true home. top | home | site index |
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