Advent
2; Yr. A, December 8, 2013
Isaiah 11:1-10;
Psalm 72:1-7, 18-19;
Romans
15:4-13; Matthew 3:1-12
Sermon
preached at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church
Hannah just finished reading a book in school called The
Giver. She was talking about it one day
and it sounded familiar to me, so I read it.
It’s a story about a society that strives for what they call “sameness”. Children get gifts every year that are the
same. Six year old girls get ribbons for
their hair. Eight or nine year olds get
a bike. Twelve year olds get a vocation,
their jobs for life. Now those who
decide on the jobs watch and discern carefully the skills each child has before
assigning them a job. So the hope is
that they get a job that suits their skills and their liking. The main character is assigned to a job that
only one other person has. He becomes
the Receiver and he will learn his job from the Giver, the man he will
eventually replace.
In that world the weather is the same every day.
No one sees color. Everything is a dull gray. Babies are matched with married couples one
day a year. Most people have the same
hair and eye color. Sameness frees
people from pain. Sameness keeps
order. Choices can cause fights. What if two people want the same thing? Sameness is freedom.
The Giver holds all the memories for the society, a
society that has eliminated all but the most superficial of emotions. There’s no real pain. There’s no real love. The people in this book could commit horrible
atrocities and never remember the pain of any of them. In fact, their lives were quite bland, but
they didn’t know it. Without the
memories of their pain, and without the memories of snow, or red and yellow
fall leaves, or sunshine they had no real appreciation for natural beauty. Without love, they were easily able to
euthanize those that could no longer be useful, and babies that were too
troublesome.
The
boy’s training involves receiving memories from the Giver. At first he receives joyful memories of
things that the society no longer allows because of their commitment to
sameness, things like snow and sunshine, color and the stirrings of young love.
Then one day, the boy arrives for training and the Giver is in incredible
pain. The boy wants to help, so the
Giver gives the boy one of his painful memories. It’s a memory of war, an incredibly painful
memory.
The
boy is almost overwhelmed by that memory.
“Why do you have to hold these memories for the people”, he asks the
Giver. “Why can’t we all just forget
them.” “Because”, the Giver tells him,
“sometimes the people need wisdom. When
something happens and they don’t know what to do, they call for me. I have
wisdom.” Wisdom is acquired through
living. Wisdom comes when we look back over
time at our actions and the consequences of them. Wisdom comes from taking the long view of
things, and seeing how different actions or decisions resulted in good or
troublesome outcomes. We don’t learn
wisdom from suffering unless we feel the pain.
Yesterday
was the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor and today is the anniversary
of the day we declared war on Japan and entered the 2nd World War. The naval base at Pearl Harbor “was
attacked by 353 Japanese fighters, bombers and torpedo planes in two waves,
launched from six aircraft
carriers. All eight U.S. Navy
battleships were damaged, with four being sunk. The Japanese also sank or
damaged three cruisers,
three destroyers, an
anti-aircraft training ship, and one minelayer. 188 U.S.
aircraft were destroyed; 2,402 Americans were killed and 1,282 wounded.”[1] The window in the back of our church is there
because two brothers died there. It is
an incredibly painful day in the history of our country. For many, the memory is also a frightening
one; but without it, we might never have the opportunity to grow in
wisdom.
This
Advent Sunday’s theme is peace. The
reading from Isaiah talks about lambs lying down with wolves, a leopard
sleeping next to a young goat, a cow snuggling up to a bear. It’s a kind of peace that seems beyond not
only our understanding, but beyond belief.
But what the early Christians saw in Jesus was a fulfillment of that
passage. For them, Jesus is that shoot
of Jesse, the one who would bring all the world to himself, to reconcile the
world to God. John went out into the
wilderness to proclaim a baptism of repentance, a baptism of returning and
reconciliation, when he should have followed his father into the temple. John did something radical. Radical means
root. John became a radical. Radical means root. John dug deep for the root of his faith. He joined a minority group and struck out to
live in the desert. He was a wacko guy
who wore strange clothes and made a meal of local locusts. People flocked to him. People wanted to be baptized by him. They were looking for something. The message of repentance and reconciliation
drew them in. They wanted to be in
relationship with God.
Then
John baptized Jesus. In Jesus, John
found his temple. Through him, the world would be reconciled to God … not with sacrifices,
not with offerings ... but with love.
It’s
such a powerful message that Paul, the Pharisee, goes out to the Gentiles to
proclaim it. He tells them that Jesus
was sent as a servant of the circumcised, as a servant of the Jews, so that the
Gentiles might also glorify God and return.
Faith in Jesus is hope. And Paul
offers the Gentiles the same promise that Isaiah proclaims to the Jews in exile
… the root of Jesse shall come, and
Paul adds that the one who rises to rule
the Gentiles; in him the Gentiles shall hope. The hope of the Jews is embodied in Jesus,
and is the hope of the world.
Usually
when we cut down a tree and shoots start to emerge we cut them off. If we don’t the tree grows back. The Roman government tried to cut off that shoot,
but it didn’t die. God preserved it and
it has flourished. Jesus brought new
life to those without hope in his own day.
How ironic it is that we look to a “sucker” for our salvation. Everything about Jesus points to this
reality. An unwed mother bears a son who
will one day ride into Jerusalem in glory.
A baby born in a stable and laid in a manger will one day be called King
of Kings, and Lord of Lords. A man
crucified on a cross as a common criminal will forgive his friends for
abandoning him his executioners for their actions. A dying man who felt forsaken by God will
reconcile us to God and to one another. A
man who was presumed dead rises to new life and lives in us.
We
are being called, just as John called the people of his day, to a radical
spirituality, one that acknowledges the pain of the world and engages it on a
path toward wisdom that can lead us into peace.
Until we are willing to face our own struggles and admit our love affair
with violence … in video games, on television, in the movies, in so many venues
that we call entertainment … there can be no peace. Until we are willing to face the despair that
results from economic inequality in a culture of consumerism, there can be no
peace. Until we are willing to admit
that no one can be happy with what the have … if what they have isn’t enough,
we will have no peace. It begins by
listening deeply to the memories, the stories, of our own culture and
neighborhood. It begins in
remembrance. Every week, we come
together at this table to remember hope … let us also remember the pain of our
world and offer it to God so that we might be moved to listen more intently and
respond more compassionately for we put our faith in Christ.
Amen.
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