Advent 2: Elusive Peace

Scripture can be found here

Every year at this time, I am swamped with memories of Advents past—Advent, not Christmas. It has always been the season I loved the most. And I was remembering the first time I ever decorated a Christmas tree. It was a big deal, because I was 17, and we hadn’t had a tree in our home since I was 7 (long, complicated story). I remember it like it was yesterday.

It was a dark December night, and in our living room stood a tall, narrow pine tree, mounted in its stand. Next to it was a cardboard box with a tangle of Christmas lights and a few ornaments.

Now, as you know, tree decorating requires the right music, but there was no Christmas music in our house (part of the same long, complicated story). Fortunately, before coming home from college, I’d purchased “Christmas In Cambridge” by the Harvard University Choir. The record jacket listed music, most of which, I’d never heard before. I placed it on the stereo, and let the needle fall gently on the vinyl, and bent over the cardboard box of ornaments. As I wound a string of lights around the tree, I heard, for the first time in my life, “A Spotless Rose.”

A spotless Rose is blowing
Sprung from a tender root,
Of ancient seers' foreshowing,
Of Jesse promised fruit;
ts fairest bud unfolds to light
Amid the cold, cold winter"
And in the dark midnight…

I think, at some point, I stopped what I was doing—music has that effect on me, it draws all my attention—I listened intently. I was mesmerized by the rising and falling of the young voices—college students, like me—and I stood there, captured in a moment of perfect peace.

And in that moment, all complications of life fell away, and there was nothing, nothing at all, but the rising and falling of notes, and the twinkle of colorful lights, and everything in perfect harmony. “Peace” describes it. And in that moment, with a family that loved me and welcomed me home, and the assurance that we were safe there, and there would always be enough, all was well in my young life.

On the other hand, all is not well in this week’s text from Isaiah. In fact, the Israelites, God’s covenant people, are as bereft as they were when they were enslaved in Egypt. Except now, they are in exile.

In the year 587 BCE, the mighty Babylonian Empire had invaded Jerusalem, and now the holy city was gone. They had demolished the Temple, and now the dwelling place of God on earth was no more. God’s people were either killed or carried off to be strangers in a strange land. This passage contains God’s words, sent through Isaiah, to these people, who have lost everything.

Be comforted, O be comforted, my people. So God says, according to Isaiah. The people believed that God had punished them for their spiritual unfaithfulness. But now, Isaiah says, all that is in the past. Today, in this moment, God wants only to offer you words of comfort.

But how can words of comfort—even from God—provide peace? The people are in an impossible situation. They are waiting, but for what? When I think of what their waiting must have been like, I imagine an ongoing, unresolvable irritation. Like a terrible itch that can never be scratched, or a terrible wound that can never heal, or terrible threat that can never be defended against. How can they find comfort? How can they find peace?

God sees their conundrum. God gives them something to wait for. A voice cries out: Prepare, in the wilderness, a way for the Lord. A way. A path. A road.

God is taking something the people had experienced, and giving it new meaning. They know what it means when someone paves a road—it means an army isn’t far behind. So, for a while, it appears God is telling them, expect me. Expect me, along with the army I will muster to loosen the grip the Babylonians have on you. And we read line after line of instructions for preparing the road for that army.

There is a brief interlude—all flesh is like grass—to describe the difference between impermanent, frail humanity, and eternal, powerful God, and thus the assurance that God’s Word is good, and can be trusted.

There is a vision of a herald, atop a mountain, whose voice goes out with good news, and the news is—the army is coming. God is coming, with a mighty arm to smite God’s enemies. It is all very martial.

But then, a shepherd appears. And, don’t get me wrong—shepherds are tough guys and gals. They have to be able to fight off wild animals, and poachers—that’s what those staffs are for. But the image of this shepherd is entirely tender.  God will feed this flock like a shepherd, and will gather the lambs in the divine arms. God will carry them, hold them close, even the mother sheep.

What we hear is a God who speaks to people—a lot of people, a whole community—in language varied enough so that each one can hear it, and take it in. To those who are grieving, words of comfort. To those awaiting the One who will right all the wrongs, the image of God the just warrior. To those in need of healing, the gentle shepherd. To those who fear the present and future, and wonder what it will hold—assurance that God is forever, and God is near.

God is still reaching out to us in just the ways we need. To those in need of music to bring peace to their soul, God comes as a choir singing an ethereal carol. To those in need of closeness with their beloved ones far away, God comes in a FaceTime or Zoom call. To those in need of stability, God comes in the friend or partner or parent who will be their rock. 

When I think back to my “spotless rose” moment, I wonder: was that really peace? It’s easy to be peaceful when you’re alone, and you have everything you want. But don’t we also long share things with people we love? I wasn’t satisfied until I’d played that music for my family… I’m the same way now, and so are my children. When we discover something we find beautiful, fascinating, worthwhile—even something like a sunset—we want to share the experience, to show someone, to tell someone. 

And there it is, right smack in the middle of the Isaiah passage.

Then, the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,

and all people shall see it together,
    for the mouth of the Lord has spoken. (Isaiah 40:5)

“All people shall see it together.” God’s salvation comes to us in community—thus it is, and thus it ever was, a constant throughout all of scripture. God calls people together in community.

Modern Christianity has a huge challenge: the whole “personal relationship with Jesus” thing. Don’t get me wrong: I encourage everyone who wants to follow Jesus to drink in the gospels, and let him lead you, absolutely. But don’t get the idea that our faith is all about “me and Jesus.” If we live only by that idea, we have missed the mark. God never calls us to an individual project of salvation. It is always a project to be undertaken in community. Remember the last time you witnessed a baptism, or a time when new members joined the church? Remember, how the congregation was asked, “Will you pray for and support this person, as they travel the way of Jesus?” And the congregation always says a most enthusiastic “YES!”

We need one another. Even as God’s people, even as followers of Jesus, we need each other. Saint Basil the Great, another Father of the church who’s about 1700 years old, was thinking about the trend of people going to live in caves to pray and meditate and live only in God’s presence. His question was, “Whose feet will they wash?”

And maybe, more relevant to our Isaiah passage—with whom will they be at peace? With whom will they share the experience of seeing the glory of the Lord? These questions are particularly pressing—and painful—during Covid time, when many of us are feeling forced into isolation, and forced apart—exiled from our own sanctuary. But even this is an act of care for one another. The Rev. Dr. J. Herbert Nelson, the Stated Clerk of the Presbyterian Church (USA), released a pastoral letter to the church this week. In it he encourages us to “stay the course” with online worship. He writes, 

“People are dying. We should choose life and life more abundantly as our Scripture requires. We recognize that church is not a building. It is a place of worship. We are able to worship remotely, and we’ve found opportunities to have worship through other venues that do not require us to leave our homes.”

And we are doing that, in this strange new way, together. Together, we are staying apart, and taking exquisite care of one another by showing our love from a distance. There will be a time for showing our love by coming together—and now, finally, it seems we have a glimpse of it. The vaccines are coming, thanks be to God who works through scientists as well as miracles.  

So comfort. Take comfort, beloved. Thus says your God, and also your pastor. Your exile is not forever, but only for a time. And God, who comes to us in words of comfort, and in the actions of social justice warriors, and in the guise of a gentle shepherd, will continue to gather us into the divine arms.

Thanks be to God. Amen.