First
Sunday of Advent
December 3, 2006
Sermon by Pastor Joy
Bussert
The Holy Gospel according to St.
Luke. (Luke 21:25-36)
“There will be signs
in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations
confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of
what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be
shaken. Then they will see the ‘Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great
glory. Now, when these things begin to
take place, stand up and raise your heads because your redemption is drawing
near.”
Then he told them a
parable: “Look at the fig tree, and all the trees; as soon as they
sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking
place, you know that the
“Be on guard so that
your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the
worries of this life, and that day does not catch you unexpectedly, like a
trap. For it will come upon all who live
on the face of the whole earth. Be alert
at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things
that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.
The Gospel of the Lord.
Let us pray.
Our loving and gracious God, as we begin a new Advent
season, open our eyes to small signs of your coming, not just large ones. While we are waiting for the whole world to
change, help us to see little miracles and mysteries which speak of hope.
Amen.
I was fascinated to learn recently
that my friend from seminary and professor at the Lutheran School of Theology
in Chicago, Barbara Rossing, who, as some of you know, was baptized here at
Immanuel in 1952—Barbara Rossing, who has now been on the speaking circuit in
theological circles for her classic work of two years ago on the Book of Revelation—I was fascinated to
learn that she was drawn to the study of apocalyptic literature, not in
response to the furor over the popular “Left Behind” series as I would have
thought, but because of her concern for the environment and because of her
interest in addressing the problem of global warming. The tiny infant baptized here at Immanuel 50
some years ago has grown up to be a prophet of our time, a voice crying in the
wilderness; a prophet, this time one who speaks not alone but in consort with
scientists and sociologists and psychologists across the nation, and even
around the globe, as far away as Kyoto; prophets crying out to get our
attention, as prophets do. While so many
people of faith are no longer interested in apocalyptic literature, my friend
Barbara is; and scientists today are as well, for we have, they are telling us,
what you might say is a virtual apocalypse on our hands in the form of
environmental collapse. “Global warming
is the real deal, and human activity has been causing it,” said Time magazine last April. ”Americans constitute 4% of the world's
population but produce 25% of the world's greenhouse gases.”
Not too many years ago we thought we
had a lot of time, perhaps decades, to remedy the situation. Now scientists are describing tipping points
and feedback loops, thresholds beyond which a fragile ecosystem can give way to
sudden collapse.
Even if most of us Christians would
prefer to tune out apocalyptic rhetoric, social scientists and ecologists are
not. They are using the very language,
imagery, and terminology today to describe the very human condition that
Christian hope is supposed to address.
And even if it feels like all of the scientific terminology is over our
heads—and it is for most of us—it is the same old apocalyptic approach there in
our very Biblical and theological heritage where it has been all along. And now it is time that we pay attention to
the terminology that the lone voices crying in the wilderness are using, for it
is our Biblical language, voices fast becoming not lone voices but a choir
singing in consort. It is time for
people of faith to take seriously the creation theology of the Bible, to face
directly what is happening to God's creation and the human beings who are most
affected around the globe.
For how can we take the classic
Lutheran paradigm for ethics seriously, Pastor Dennis Ormseth asked last week
in our adult forum on the environmental question—the classic Lutheran ethic,
which is love of God and love of neighbor—how can we take the classic Lutheran
formula seriously if we don't address the question of the neighborhood? Love of
God and love of neighbor demands that, if we care for the neighbor, we will
care for the neighbor's neighborhood; the creation that God so loved that is
the creation in which our neighbor and we ourselves must live.
The Gospel writers see in the cosmic
cataclysms of creation signs that judgment is at hand for a world run amuck and
human affairs that are out of whack.
Ancient apocalyptic literature was preserved by New Testament writers
because it alone could capture how it felt to be confronted with a very real
human struggle in the face of very real human problems. And so we have what are known as the “little
apocalypse” in each and every Gospel, like the one in our Gospel text for the
first Sunday in Advent for today, with signs in the sun and the moon and the
stars; terrifying pictures. Except that
in each and every one, as you are reading along and feeling more and more
overwhelmed and hopeless, suddenly there is a tiny unexpected image of hope.
Like the prophet Isaiah, long before
Matthew, Mark, and Luke, the prophet who saw crazy little things of hope in the
middle of seemingly hopeless situations, like Isaiah’s tiny shoot of Jessie
emerging miraculously out of an old dead stump, so, too, each of the Gospel
writers do not leave us with apocalyptic hopelessness, but with a tiny image of hope. And for Luke in our text for today it is
something so small as a fig tree.
If it feels to us like the sun and the moon and the stars and all of
creation are about to collapse around us, take note, Luke says. Just as you expect the writer to say “It
is all over, the end is at hand,” take note of the fig tree and all of the
trees; take note of the smallest tree.
As soon as the fig tree sprouts
leaves, you can see for yourselves and know that springtime is already
near. So, too, when you see these things
taking place, you know that the
The beautiful season of Advent in
the church is the season that draws our attention to small signs of hope, signs
that other people might not even see if they are not paying attention. We hear the voice of the prophets, yes. We ponder what apocalyptic imagery might mean
for today. But we also catch a glimpse
of something so small as a fig tree. We
light, we hope not a whole bonfire, but just one candle on an Advent wreath to
remind us that hope appears in the darkness, not in big things but in one
small candle. And we catch a whiff
of evergreen, reminding us of God's eternal and never-ending love for us this
season.
Today after church children of all
ages will make their own small Advent wreath, small enough to fit on a child's
table. They can light just one little candle
each week to light up the darkness as the days become shorter and the nights
come earlier and last longer. And they
can make some other small things to take home to get ready for the season, not
big electronic things you can buy in big department stores, but small things,
special little things. If they choose,
they can leave an ornament with their name on it on the tree down in the foyer
before they go—just one.
As I was thinking about Advent
coming this past week, I was pounding out my thoughts on the pavement along the
Parkway, as always, with my best friend and most faithful sermon critic, our
golden retriever Marcella Rose, who I can always count on to listen and respond
affirmatively to whatever and wherever these sermons might go. Other people walking their dogs used to think
I was schizophrenic; now they think I'm just talking on my cell phone. I was wondering out loud, pounding the
pavement, where on earth we might find signs of hope going into this 2006
Advent season. There must be something,
I thought, pounding harder and walking faster, certainly not in the morning
paper, not in the scientists’ predictions of the coming end of the world as we
know it, not in the shopping malls as the holiday frenzy kicks in, not at the
intersections; not in the sudden turn to cold weather, I thought, as I pulled
my coat tighter around me.
And as I was pounding the pavement,
with friendly affirmative responses from Marcella Rose, I suddenly heard a
lovely sound immediately to my right.
And when I stopped long enough to notice, there, through the stark and
bare winter branches of a little tree, I caught the most beautiful glimpse of a
red cardinal, just sitting there, waiting for me to notice. And surprisingly as close as it was, it
didn't fly away, but just went on singing as if the rest of the dreary world
could go on without it.
Advent happens in small things: just
one candle, just one fig tree, just one cardinal, just one act of courage or
kindness. “People like us,” says Old
Testament theologian Walter Bruggerman, “odd, unexpected, and power can and do
make a difference. One act toward a poor
neighbor has cosmic import and will impinge upon creation in healing ways. One less gesture of greed will let one tree
live. One act of mercy may save us from
one load of pollution. One human choice
matters for the whole of creation.” Just
one candle, just one ornament, just one fig tree at a time.
I always love that great image from
Annie Dillard's little book Pilgrim at
Tinker Creek, where she saw something like this in the asphalt wasteland of
the lower Bronx. “The way plants
persevere in the bitterest of circumstances is utterly heartening. I can barely keep from unconsciously
ascribing a will to these plants,” she writes, “a do-or-die courage, and I have
to remind myself that coded cells and mute water pressure have no idea how
grandly they are flying in the teeth of it all.
In the lower
Have you ever seen such a
thing—grass growing through pavement; one solitary cardinal through bare winter
branches; one courageous person, who has known great tragedy, coming out of
darkness into light; one gesture of kindness, one act of mercy; just one
little candle lit in the
darkness.
“So
what would you do, Brother Martin,” one of the antagonists once put it to
Martin Luther, “what would you do if the
world were to end tomorrow?” “What would I do if the world were to end
tomorrow?” Luther replied. “Well, if the world were to end tomorrow, I
would plant a tree today.”
In the midst of cosmic signs, God
gives us signs of Advent hope in the smallest of places—one candle, one tree,
a picture of a fig tree blooming in the springtime. Like God's grace, hope is something we do not
find. It is given, without our asking or
earning, as a gift. It is given within
the creation to us itself. It is utterly
heartening. The least we can do this
season is try to be there.
Amen.