Sermon Preached by the Rev. John S. Nieman

Sermon Preached by the Rev. John S. Nieman

St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church

December 3, 2017 Advent 1/Year B

Texts – Isaiah 64: 1-9; Psalm 80: 1-7, 16-18; 1 Corinthians 1: 3-9; Mark 13: 24-37

Today is the First Sunday of Advent, which is the start of a new year for Christians. And Advent of course begins our journey toward Christmas, the Feast of the Incarnation, the Word made flesh. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

It’s always struck me as a little odd, even jarring, that on this first day of the Christian New Year we hear about the end of the world. Each year on this day we get a version of what we heard from Mark this morning. Last year it was from Matthew, next year it will be from Luke. The passage is part of what is often called the “Little Apocalypse.” That’s right – an Apocalypse. Christians start the New Year not with a glass of champagne and a kiss at midnight. We prefer something a little more dramatic: a darkened sun, stars falling from the sky, and a dire warning to keep awake. Frankly, given this apocalyptic vision, maybe now is the time to take a drink and kiss the one we love.

It’s no secret that the apocalyptic passages in the Bible fascinate a lot of people. Some high-profile pastors have even figured out how to exploit the fear they elicit and turn it into lucrative mega-church enterprises. That’s especially the case in our country where Christianity has often been hijacked by the American entrepreneurial spirit.

The fact is that these apocalypses – whether big or little – are meant to awaken a healthy dose of fear, a sense of awe and reverence. It’s what makes us stop in our tracks and say, “Oh – my – God.” For they speak not of everyday, run of the mill events – not of tea with a friend, not of a lovely hike in the woods, not of a nap in our favorite chair beside the warmth of a crackling winter fire. (I’m revealing some of my guilty pleasures now.) They speak instead of God’s in-breaking, God’s irruption into our world. The Creator, the eternal Holy One, the Alpha and the Omega, the one who was, who is, and who is to come, God is knocking at the door. And if that’s not a fearful event, if that’s not something to wake you up, then I don’t know what is.

But the apocalyptic message does not strike only that one note. It doesn’t simply awaken fear. It also awakens hope. And here is the paradox of God’s glory. Fear and hope are two sides of the same coin. Destruction and new life come together. Death and resurrection are wed. It’s not only that the mountains quake and the nations tremble. It’s also that God’s people are nursed, carried on the Lord’s arm, and dandled on her knees, to use a few images presented later on in this section of Isaiah. It’s not only that God judges according to the plumb-line of justice. It’s also that God redeems and reconciles according to his steadfast love. In the words of Psalm 85, “Mercy and truth have met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other.” It’s not only that God brings about the end of the old. It’s also that God brings about the beginning of the new.

Most of us here have lived long enough to have experienced at least one little apocalypse, one little world-ending event, of our own. We know the fear, the uncertainty, the anxiety, and the grief that accompany every momentous ending. I remember a comment Margaret’s mother made right after Margaret’s father died far too prematurely. She said “the worst thing I have been able to imagine has now come to pass.” She was experiencing not just sadness, not just mourning. She was experiencing the trauma of a calamitous ending. The world she and Bill had created and would have gladly lived in forever collapsed. The mountains quaked. The stars fell. It was her little apocalypse. And she allowed herself to feel it, to live it. And more to the point, she was aware, albeit sometimes dimly, that Christ was present with her in it. She trusted in the hope that God would bind up the wounds.

The world is experiencing right now something of this apocalyptic dynamic. It feels tomany of us as if the earth is quaking beneath us and the stars are falling from the sky. Even the most steadfast, non-literal, scientifically-mindedperson must steel herself against the temptation to take literally some of the more well-known apocalyptic imagery of the earlier part of this chapter from Mark’s gospel, imagery of earthquakes, wars and rumors of wars, and famines. It’s all happening right now. The fact is those things have happened in every age. Our age is no more cataclysmic than many previous ages when it comes to natural disasters, human violence, and famine. What is distinctive in our age is the degree to which we are contributing to and in some ways exacerbating the calamities. What is unique in our age is our 24/7 access to written descriptions and visual depictions of all these things in every part of the world.

We may or may not be experiencing the ultimate destruction of our physical world. What we surely are experiencing is the end of a world we once knew. The security and familiarity we came to rely on are collapsing as new forces are breaking in. We feel the anxiety and fear. Can we also make room for hope in God’s loving presence?

The tectonic shifts we are experiencing in our world are also happening in the Church of Jesus Christ. It’s been a long time since people in the west commonly used the term “Christendom.” The word described the presumed comfortable relationship – sometimes formal sometimes informal; sometimes legally sanctioned, sometimes not – between society and Christianity. Whether we used the term or not, it was not long ago – surely in my lifetime – when that presumed relationship and the benefits that came to Christians from it were just part of the fabric of life. People were born, baptized, went to church, got married in a church and buried from a church. Kids went to Sunday school and teens to youth groups. A lot of regular transaction occurred in church. There were even church basketball leagues and girl-scout troops. You’ll still find a little of that, but it’s going away fast. The old order is breaking apart, and we feel the fear and uncertainty as we live through it. Can we also feel the power of God in the process of doing a new thing? Because that’s happening too.

And we here at St. Andrew’s have been walking together through what we intentionally call a “transition time.” There has been a deliberate awareness that the old order is passing away. Many of the things that defined this parish’s life at one time can be celebrated for what they were, but can’t be clung to forever. This time of transition in part has been about gently letting go of what was familiar and learning to anticipate the new and perhaps even strange. We have been learning to be gentle with one another as we move through this. And we are rediscovering those things that endure: the liturgy, through which we continue to tell the story of God’s redemptive love for the world; the call to ministry to serve one another and the world; the gift of community and what it takes to bind us together. These all are signs of God’s faithful presence.

We will enter a new and critical phase of this transition period this year. It’s the discernment phase, which will begin with the formation of a discernment committee sometime early in the calendar year – or to stay within the framework of the Church’s calendar, sometime toward the end of the Season of Epiphany or the beginning of Lent. Don’t be surprised if some of you feel a little anxious as this next year unfolds, wondering if the right person will come along. If you find yourself feeling that, simply acknowledge it. But don’t dwell there. Know that there is a process, that it is sound, and that it’s designed to give God’s Spirit a lot of room to work. And keep awake even as you feel the mountains quake. Keep awake as you trust in the hope of God’s new life. Keep awake as you witness that new life coming to birth.

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