When you’re flying over the eastern seaboard of the US, if it’s a clear night, you are treated to a light show of dramatic proportions.  First the highways appear, large sweeping curves of light pointing towards the heart of the city.  If you have really good eyesight and you’re coming in for a landing, you can sort out a grid pattern to the lights.  And at certain angles , it looks like the lights go on forever, stretching ever wider, rolling into infinity.  The cities blend into one another, a great wave of light pouring itself along the edge of the continent.

Over the southern part of the US, you get a different picture.  Flying down over Louisiana, headed toward the airport in Houston, Texas, you would see smaller, disconnected splashes of light as groups of people light holiday bonfires on the levees and set off fireworks to celebrate the season. 

Over other parts of our country, you encounter large gaps – not unlike a cell phone coverage map –  hundreds of miles of what appears to be nothing, occasionally threaded by a single strand of light that might be a highway crossing plains, desert, mountains or badlands. 

And when you head out from California, flying over the Pacific in the middle of the night, there are thousands of miles of watery darkness beneath you.  Once you pass by Hawaii, it seems there’s nothing behind, and nothing ahead – just miles and miles of emptiness where you could be in a science fiction novel, disconnected from the rest of the world, traveling through a surreal, unnaturally long night.

It seems silent, from way up there.  And yet, hundreds or thousands of miles below you, in all these places, things are happening.  Sea creatures swim across vast distances.  A trucker driving over-the-road tries to make it home for the holidays.  Revelers are making music and dancing atop the levees.  A mother in labor tries to hold back the urge to push as her life partner drives too fast to get to the hospital.  People head out to third-shift jobs, get another cup of coffee at the all-night diner, wait in line for the midnight store opening, huddle in encampments waiting for the authorities to arrive. 

What appears to be a silent panorama from a thousand miles up is in fact pulsing with the heartbeat of life.  Many beings are drawing breath, loving, being born, crying out, dying in the middle of that not-quite-silent night.  God is acting in the middle of that not-quite-silent night. 

On the night when the world began again, all was not calm.  I find it hard to believe there was deep or dreamless sleep anywhere in the city.   Give Mary the “how still we see thee lie” line, and she might very well crack up with exhausted laughter.  O Little Town of Bethlehem, Joseph’s hometown, was teeming with crowds.  It was packed to the gills, strangers and old friends thrown together by a census. 

Each to their own city, as it’s told.  So there was a great upheaval as families criss-crossed the land to get to their ancestral home.  Family A to point C, family B to point A, family C to point B – everybody was on the road.  A bird’s eye view of Bethlehem might show lamps lit, crowds filling the street, too-loud voices haggling prices with the innkeeper, others attempting to wrangle a room with a first cousin twice removed who they hadn’t seen since they were yea high.  Imagine a Badgers home game paired with a special event on State Street, a mega-musical at the Overture Center, and a massive protest going on at the Capitol, and you begin to get the picture.  Too many voices, too many people, too many things to worry about; high anxiety all around. 

Watching over this activity, the stars keep their slow arc through the night sky.  The pace of the eternal is a little bit different from the hectic drive of a human lifetime.   The whirlwind of the ninth month of pregnancy, the mass displacement by government action, are part of the pattern of a night that has been coming to be for a long, long time.  A pattern of light coming into the world, a pattern that looks like chaos to us at ground level, but somewhere, beyond the range of our reasoning or our sightlines, means something.

Because God is being born.  In the midst of a crowded, dirty, noisy city, God is being born.  In the midst of an oppressive empire built on technological achievement and exploitation, God is being born.  In a place ordinarily deemed unfit for human habitation, one that would have Child Protective Services knocking at the door in a heartbeat, God is being born.  Among ordinary good citizens from ordinary places, living in an extraordinary time, God is being born. 

We may not be able to see the sweep of salvation history from where we sit.  We may be too close to the animal dung and the sweaty strangers standing in lines.  We may be too close to the oppressors or the oppressed, feet on the ground, nose to the grindstone, trying to make it all work. 

But God is being born.   And so the angels sing, and the star shines.  The true light shines in the darkness, and the darkness will never put it out.   Out in the boonies, some folks get an inkling that this night might be different and tromp back into town.  Mary cries out in a dirty back room in a crowded city, because giving birth to God is hard work.  It startles the cattle, who start lowing.  Joseph prays for mercy, and wonders if there isn’t somebody, anybody who could be of more use than he.

But God is being born, thank you very much.  Help is on the way.   Far beyond those streets, angels unfurl their wings to notify the shepherds.  God’s messengers do not fail.  The Wise Ones, having kept their eyes open, set out on a journey, with suitably royal gifts in hand.  The night skies ring out with God’s triumph:  God is being born.   Christ is born in Bethlehem. 

From where we sit, two thousand years and thousands of miles away, a silent night sounds pretty good.  After the hubbub of holiday preparations, still sounds pretty good.  Deep and dreamless sleep sounds even better (unless you’re dreaming of sugarplums). 

But how can we sleep, when the angels are singing their Glorias?  How can we sleep while Mary cries out?  How can we sleep while the crowds jostle one another and the innkeeper cries out, “No Room!”  and the authorities stand guard in case someone shows up to start some trouble? 

How can we sleep when God is being born? 

Amen. 

Texts:  1 Thessalonians 5:16-24 and Isaiah 61:1-4

In a prior professional life, I had the questionable privilege of being a landlord.    Our agency owned two small apartment buildings.   They were hundred-year-old buildings, bought from the bank following a foreclosure.   Once they had been renovated inside and out, they were put into service as transitional housing for low-income single parent families trying to get back on their feet.   

I say questionable privilege, because anything involving these apartments was much more complex than it first appeared.   You name it, it existed as a complicating factor.   Section 8 Housing regulations, historic overlay district, 30-year deed restrictions, Davis-Bacon wage determinations, easements for the neighbors’ property, nonconforming sidewalk, plus all the joys of owning 100-year-old buildings.

And on my watch, the owner of a defunct business on the same block decided to tear his building down.   With about a week’s notice, he sent us correspondence that we were to detach our storm drainage from his building.  You try sorting out property rights on a 100-year old fully-built-up city block.  Whatever adjective is the strongest opposite of “simple”, describes this project.   By the time we were done, it involved archives & public records searches, a playground closed due to falling bricks, multiple city personnel, raze or repair orders, structural engineers, and a mandatory months-long evacuation of tenants due to lead dust from the demolition next door.   

Some projects should come with a warning label:  “Caution!  Even more complex than it first appears!”  “May cause and sleepless nights.”  “Not for the faint-hearted!  Prepare your strongest vocabulary!”  “No good deed goes unpunished!”

When I think of the project the Israelites faced upon returning from exile – the situation the prophet Isaiah was speaking to in this morning’s reading - I find it similarly daunting.   When they conquered Jerusalem, the Babylonians broke down the walls, pillaged the city, destroyed the temple, and hauled off the elite, the brightest and the best, the current and future leaders, to their capital.   In short, they did what rampaging empires usually did:   they smoking ruins behind.   Many years later, after the next empire went tromping through the ancient Middle East,and knocked that Babylonians off their high horse, the exiles were allowed to return, and charged with rebuilding: 

“This is what Cyrus king of Persia says:  “‘The LORD, the God of heaven, has given me all the kingdoms of the earth and he has appointed me to build a temple for him at Jerusalem in Judah. Any of his people among you may go up, and may the LORD their God be with them.’”   (2 Chronicles 36:23)

And that’s where things get complicated.  There’s a reason Isaiah talks about “devastation” and “ruined cities.”   It’s not metaphorical.  Do you think the folks who were left behind to cope with the smoking ruins of their culture, were happy?  Do you think they wanted to part with what scarce resources they’d managed to squirrel away in a difficult time, to share with these strangers, these interlopers?  What is this “rebuilding the temple” business, anyhow?  We’re busy trying to survive, thank you very much!  Oh, God said so?  Riiight.

From the other side, imagine the folks returning from exile.   Sent back home – to a home they probably never knew - with a divine mandate, “rebuild!”   When they first set themselves to the task, they were enthusiastic about the prospects.   “No place to go but up,” they might have thought.   For ordinary folks, this might be a daunting task.  But they were in it for the long haul.   God’s behind us!  We’re fully committed, ready to rebuild.   Ready to rebuild the public places.  Ready to rebuild religious life, civic life, God’s beloved community.   Ready to add a new layer to the story of faith in God’s holy land, promised to God’s people generations before.

But rebuilding is always a bigger task than it first appears.   The grand plans are lovely on paper.  But in the world of bodies and building materials, the work is hard, the hours are long, the project seems never-ending.  It’s like the bathroom renovation that mushrooms when you discover a rotten subfloor or leaky pipes.  There’s no quick fix.  There was always something new to do, some element they hadn’t planned for.  Occasionally, the impact of their efforts seemed questionable.   So at some point, the construction foreman calls time for a break.   

“Our spirits grow faint,” the workers say, in Bible-speak.   Translation:  We’re tired.  Worn out, body mind and spirit.  Getting a little cynical.  Where do we go from here?   We don’t have much more to give.  Where’s the rest of the work crew we were promised?  

To this burned-out bunch, Isaiah the prophet comes to offer a pep talk.   Sweaty, dirty, dusty, sitting on the curb, trying to muster the energy to get up for a cup of water, God’s construction crew is somewhat of a captive audience. 

“You have been called!”  says Isaiah.   (Not on my watch, says the cynical one.  Can’t someone else do it this time?)   But he goes on.   “It is the year of the Lord’s favor!” says Isaiah.   Do you know what that means?  Good News!  This is the year when God answers prayers.  This is the year when God establishes God’s people.  This is the year when God fills in the gaps.   This is the year when God offers an everlasting covenant, a promise that will never be forgotten or forsaken. 

A covenant goes two ways.  Commitments and sacrifice, joy and pain on both sides.  I hear no “easy” in that.   I hear no shortcuts, no prefab solutions.    And when I’m honest, that makes a lot of sense.  The Good News is messy, not bright and shiny like a Christmas card.   God is coming to live among us, and this Good News doesn’t make all the problems disappear.  Remember the story:   Commitments tested by unexpected happenings.   A long road to travel, and nowhere comfortable to rest afterwards.   Limited resources.   Forces that actively oppose what God is up to.   Messy real people with messy lives trying to pay attention to God’s will when they have no idea what’s coming around the corner.  

I hear no easy in that.  But I do hear a holy promise.   As Paul says, “The one who calls you is faithful, and will do this.”   God has anointed you, prophets.  God makes you ministers and leaders.  God makes you – you! – a home for the holy.   God makes you – you! – an offering to the world.   The one who calls you is faithful, and will do this.  Rejoice always, pray without ceasing.   Do not quench the Spirit. 

People of God, you are rebuilding the church:  McFarland UCC, planted here by God and God’s people, a sanctuary for the holy.   It is a time for building up, for extending our vision and our reach.    Hold fast to what is good.   Keep your eye on the prize.  God is preparing the way.  God is bringing God’s people home.  But they need a place to come to. 

God is rebuilding God’s holy community, and God needs a construction crew.    Let us make, together, a place to worship.   To learn.   To serve.    Let us rebuild in our hearts and in this community a place of praise. 

The prophets and the angels are calling us to join their song.    “The spirit of the Lord God is upon me,” says Isaiah, “because the Lord has anointed me...” 

Anointed.   A holy work crew given a commission for a complicated, long-haul project.  

Good News!

Who will go?

Amen. 

Text:  Mark 13:24-37

The first Sunday of Advent is always apocalypse Sunday.  Just when we’ve survived the Thanksgiving table spectacular – and maybe have started to untangle the Christmas lights – WHAM!  The prophets or the Gospels or both hit us with visions of the end.    It seems an odd way to begin the church year, to begin the season of preparation for Christ’s birth. 

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down,” begs Isaiah.  The Psalmist says, “Stir up your might, and come to save us!”  Paul writes, “God will also strengthen you to the end, so that you may be blameless on the day of our Lord Jesus Christ.”  And Mark – well, Mark skips the whole baby Jesus thing entirely.   The Gospel of Mark is on a headlong rush to the cross, and that’s the Gospel text in rotation this year.   On this first Sunday of the Christian year, Mark gives us the apocalypse.  “…in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.”  

With scriptures like that, we can just button it all up and go home until Holy Week, right?  If Mark’s in such a rush to get to the cross, we’ll go get our baby Jesus on somewhere else.   We have a tree, we have a crèche, we have a wreath, we have whole section of our hymnal just full of Christmas carols waiting to be sung.  We’re not really into that whole end times thing.  It doesn’t seem like the right time for it.  The signs aren’t right.  

Speaking of signs:  we had two apocalypse scares this year.  Harold Camping and his followers were so convinced the world was going to end May 21 – and then October 21.  They stand in a proud tradition – there have been hundreds of widely-held predictions of the end of the world during the Christian era.   People parse the signs.  They look at the book of Revelation and try to cast the characters.  They come up with their own calculation of the accurate date of the crucifixion.  They claim divine revelation.   They claim “the Bible guarantees it.”  

Earthquakes, floods, fires, war and rumor of war, civil unrest, famine, disease – all of these are somehow signs that the end is near.  Never mind that natural and human-made disasters have been taking place for tens upon thousands of years.  This time it’s the real deal.

“But about that day or hour no one knows,” says Jesus.  Not the angels, not even Jesus knows.   So we can quit our calculating and our soothsaying now.  

Great.  Can we get back to Christmas yet?

Almost.   For all the things they got wrong – their calculations, their decision to quit jobs, sell off worldly goods and abandon family, their decision to retreat into walled compounds – all of these end-times enthusiasts did get something right:  they were watching.  They were alert.    They were just alert for the wrong occasion.

If you’re always looking ahead – borrowing trouble, as one of my great-aunts might say – you lose track of what is happening now.   You can’t force spring to arrive any sooner by guessing the date on which the crocus leaves will poke through the soil.   You can’t force Christmas to come sooner by opening up all of the little cardboard windows on the Advent calendar.   You can’t experience the book if you skip ahead to the last sentence of the last chapter.   These things will come in their due time.   There is no express bus.

Jesus doesn’t say: “the mark of faithfulness is being able to predict the date of my return.”  No divine extra credit for super-duper skills of prediction.  Things are unfolding, and they will come in a certain order, just like a tree puts out leaves and flowers and bears fruit after the winter.   Don’t try to set a date on it.   Jesus does say: “the mark of faithfulness is doing my work even when I’m not watching over your shoulder.” 

Live in the season which you have been given.  Be aware of what is happening around you.  Live as if Christ might be here tomorrow, or tonight.  Be alert; serve Christ when the opportunity arises.  Be alert; be people of compassion – feed the hungry, clothe the naked, help those in need.  Be alert; be salt, and light, and leaven.   Now is the right time, is the message of the apocalypse.  Now is the right time for reconciliation.  Now is the right time for fruitfulness.  Now is the right time to take Christ’s message seriously.  Now is the right time to start living like a disciple.

Whether we attach ourselves to the vulnerable little baby of the manger, the teacher and healer who wandered around Palestine bearing stories and Good News, the angry preacher who cleared the temple of moneylenders, the tortured and beaten man whose broken body hung from a cross, or the after-Easter Risen One who walked through walls and startled his disciples into belief, we follow Christ.  

We are disciples.   The disciple’s answer to the when of the apocalypse is now.   Be alert, for Christ walks among you.   God has many faces, and God does what we do not expect.   These are signs of God’s love for us and God’s love for the world.   These are signs that God does not leave us alone.  These are signs that God is coming into the world, over and over again.  The end and the beginning are all tangled up together, sparkling lights that cannot be separated.  These are signs of the great mystery of God’s love and mercy and grace that is beyond our limited ability to comprehend.

It is a good time to be alert.  To watch for the signs.  To not be afraid.  To watch for Emmanuel, God-with-us.  Christ is coming soon.

Amen.