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Sermon by Rev. Deborah Hannay Sunoo
Ready or not, here it comes! Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and soon all of the “somethings” you’ve been doing all month to get ready will be behind you. Though I hope in our respective ways we’ve heeded Pastor Justin’s excellent advice at the beginning of Advent this year, and managed to do one or two fewer “somethings” and at least a little bit of “nothing” this particular December, to prepare our hearts for the big day. Because it’s an incredible thing we’re about to celebrate. And no amount of rushing around can adequately prepare us to receive it. Granted, the Christmas story has become so familiar to most of us by now that we forget how absolutely mind-blowing it is. The human dimension of the story is so appealing – shepherds out in the fields and a stable full of animals and a sweet young mother holding her newborn child. There’s nothing wrong with dwelling on those parts of the story, and we were certainly treated to a delightful retelling by our children at the Christmas pageant last Sunday. Still, it’s easy in the midst of so many charming details to lose sight of the other-wordly, transcendent side of the thing. That’s where this morning’s Scripture texts can help us. Notice: John’s gospel begins very differently from the others – no census ordered by Caesar Augustus, no innkeeper, no nervous parents, no shepherds abiding in the fields. Instead, we find all of this majestic language of light conquering darkness, and the Word of God becoming flesh, full of glory, grace, and truth. We read it a couple weeks ago along with other beautiful texts about light shining in the darkness. Today we read it alongside Isaiah 6. Not necessarily one of the more traditional Advent readings, though we sang about it earlier today in a hymn about the incarnation, “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence.” The text is Isaiah’s inaugural vision – he’s describing the very moment he is commissioned by God to be a prophet—and this is what he sees. The God of Israel enthroned in the temple in Jerusalem. A temple, mind you, that’s already massive. But here in this vision, the scale of the God he sees absolutely dwarfs that enormous building. He sees the Lord “high and lofty, and the hem (or train) of his robe filled the temple.” (Isa 6:1) Think about that: te hem of God’s robe fills the place. One of my seminary professors used to say this would be like walking into the National Cathedral in Washington, DC – I was once told it’s so large that you could lay the whole Washington monument down on its side in there? – imagine walking into that great cathedral and finding it filled with one giant toe. The big-ness of God is what Isaiah’s on about here. The hem of God’s royal robe filled the temple. And then this image of cherubim and seraphim around God’s throne as Isaiah’s vision continues. We who’ve been exposed primarily to the work of Western, European artists naturally get a mental picture here of chubby little babies with curly hair– we’ve been taught that’s what cherubs are supposed to look like, and frankly it fits in fairly nicely with the infant in a manger motif. But in the Ancient Near East, cherubim were these magnificent winged lions, often carved in gold in the thrones of the great kings. And seraphim were flying serpents. Snakes are scary enough on the ground, if you ask me. But in the iconography of the ancient world we have these majestic looking serpents with wings, hovering in the air around the throne of God. In this case, six wings a piece. And all of these creatures now are shielding their faces from the blinding brightness of God, and lifting their voices in praise: Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord of Hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.” (Isa 6:3) Lions and serpents with wings – Oh my! This isa far cry from a dimple-cheeked baby in a pile of straw. But that’s the point, isn’t it? In order to understand the radical surprise of the incarnation, of God with flesh on, we first have to remind ourselves how far down God had to stoop to get here. As one preacher memorably puts it: “Do you think youcould contain Niagara Falls in a teacup?”[1] It’s a long way from Isaiah’s glorious vision in the temple to a little squirt in his swaddling clothes. But that journey, that swooping-down, stooping-down to earth from heaven is what gives us hope. For if God can do that, then nothing is impossible for God. And if almighty God loves us enough to take on this frail flesh, then we’ve truly encountered a love that will not let us go. Remember that our Advent hope is not some sort of pie in the sky wishful thinking, but is a grounded hope. How do we know? Because the very same Lord, who sits so high and lofty in Isaiah’s vision, the hem of his robe filling the temple, also (somehow) lay in that pile of straw in a manger in Bethlehem. And not coincidentally, thirty-some years later, he marched right out of his own grave. Our hope has substancebecauseGodtook on substance, took on flesh, became one of us in order to save us. Granted, it’s painfully obvious that we continue to wait and watch for a fulfillment of God’s promises that lies somewhere out there in the future. No matter how beautiful the candlelight on Christmas Eve, no matter how many of our favorite carols we sing, we won’t be fooled into thinking all is right with the world. Not yet. . .But God’s kingdom will come, in time. While it may seem an unlikely addition to our Advent playlist, a song in the Broadway version of “The Lion King” has captured for me this year the way Christian hope can operate. Titled “Endless Night,” the song begins the way you would expect it to, from that title, with words of fear, confusion, and grief in the midst of the darkness – Where has the starlight gone? Dark is the day How can I find my way home?... Lost to the night Father, I feel so alone. You promised you'd be there Whenever I needed you Whenever I call your name You're not anywhere… It could practically be a psalm of lament, and surely this is where we too have to begin sometimes for our Christian proclamation to make any sense at all to the world around us. We’ve got to begin where we are, where others are, with the all-too-real pain this life can dish out. But that’s not where we end. Nor is it where this song ends. Instead, it gradually begins to turn. The lead character cries out “a word, just a word will do to end this nightmare,” and he’s answered – not by a single voice but by a whole chorus and (when I listened carefully to the soundtrack again) it turns out that chorus had been humming along quietly in the background even at the very beginning of the lament. Now we hear them gently singing hopeful lyrics to our grieving lead character: I know that the night must end And that the sun will rise And that the sun will rise I know that the clouds must clear And that the sun will shine And that the sun will shine And he begins to sing along with them, tentatively at first: I know that the night must end And that the sun will rise And that the sun will rise I know that the clouds must clear And that the sun will shine And that the sun will shine Gradually he sings with greater confidence, and greater volume, and the song builds and builds, and chorus and lead alike pull out all the stops in what becomes a powerfulanthem of light shining in the darkness: I know that the night must end And that the sun will rise And that the sun will rise I know that the clouds must clear And that the sun will shine And that the sun will shine I know Yes, I know The sun will rise… I know Yes, I know The clouds must clear … the night must end … the sun will rise I don’t know about you, but when I stand here in this room tomorrow night and sing carols on Christmas Eve, that’s the spirit in which I want to offer them. Aware of the darkness but not defeated by it. Feet firmly planted in reality, but with an equally firm grasp on my belief in God’s greatness and God’s goodness, and a heart courageous enough to be full of hope. I also want to give thanks for the voices of those around me, and around the world, who sing together. For the journey from lament to praise needn’t be attempted alone. There’s a whole chorus of believers singing right along with us. All of us together reminding one another that God’s light shines in the darkness, and the darkness simply cannot overcome it. This means that – however long it takes - the night will end and the sun will rise. If we can remember that, then we’re ready for Christmas. But first – shhh! –it’s not quite time yet to pull out all the stops. Today offers us one more chance to be quiet. To do nothing, even for a moment or two, as we prepare for the “very best something.” Because if we don’t allow our gift-wrapping, tree-trimming, party-going selves to be still for a minute, we might miss those telltale signs that our Advent hope is not in vain – the gentle background humming of a chorus of believers, the soft rustling of a massive royal robe in the temple, and the quiet sounds of a baby sleeping in the straw. --------------- [1]Brennan Manning, “Shipwrecked at the Stable” in Watch for the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas (Plough Publishing House, 2001) -- entry for December 20th. Comments are closed.
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