Third Sunday of Advent Sermon

There’s something sacred to be found in the long nights of Advent – this winter solstice time of year when the long stretches of night speak to our souls of the darkness around and within us. And as we sense this darkness – in the world, in our selves – we hold it all, in outstretched hands, a petition to the coming Christ: have mercy, Lord, have mercy.

This is what we do in Advent – holding despair, holding hope – with hope that hope shall prove the stronger. And so as the weeks of Advent progress, the message lightens as Christ is drawing near. Light shines in the darkness, and darkness does not overcome it.

The LORD has anointed me (cries the prophet, Isaiah);

he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,

to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim liberty to the captives,

and release to the prisoners.

(Isaiah 61:1-2)

There is an end to suffering. For in God’s kingdom, mourning and oppression do not have the final word.

But even hardship, in its season, has a role to play. For when we remain in places of constant comfort and ease, we develop a rather weak and distorted view of our own potential strength. We observe hardship around us and say to ourselves, “I could never survive that.” I used to say I could never live in the humidity. And then I moved to Alabama … and I lived in the humidity. Or we watch a friend battling cancer and think to ourselves, “I don’t know how she’s doing it. I couldn’t be as strong as she is.” And then your turn comes, and it is awful and it does hurt and it’s terribly frightening and – day by day – you do it. Sometimes well. Many days not so well. But it becomes your life, and your life you live, day by day, with a strength you didn’t know was possible.

I remember years ago, receiving word that my friends’ nine-year-old daughter had Leukemia. After writing an email updating us on the treatments and terror that she and the family have been thrust into, the father concluded, “Day 8 is done. Last Monday I thought our daughter had a tummy bug. And now she’s being treated for cancer and will be in the hospital for months. But day 8 is done.”

We don’t choose most of our battles. They choose us. And at the front end it seems unendurable. When we’re in the middle, it can be even worse. “It’s overwhelming. I can’t go on.” And then… day 8 is done. And we do go on. And eventually there comes an end and you’ve made it through. But where we arrive is rarely the place of our beginning: the innocent place, the carefree place, or – as is often the case – the immature, unformed place. We come to the other side.

And the promise of Advent is this: On the other side is God who will comfort all who mourn and bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair (Isaiah 62:3).

And, should we allow the Wisdom of God to take her form in us, there comes the extraordinary discovery that – not only is God waiting on the other side – but God was there all along. Before it was God and within it was God. Without beginning and without end, there is God. When our eyes are open and when our eyes are shut; when our hearts are soft and when they are hard; when we are filled with faith and when we are lost to despair, God is there. And the end of all things shall be God.

I remember going for a walk one afternoon, not long ago, and thinking quite clearly to myself, “Enjoy this, Eric. You’ll never be this young again. You’ll never be this healthy again. There will come a day when going for a walk will be an ordeal. And then a day when you cannot walk at all. So enjoy this while you can. You’ve got everything you need to be happy, right now.”

And that was true. It was wisdom for the moment to cherish the good that was mine.

But as I continued to think about it, there grew a parallel wisdom and conviction, “But there will be no day when the same is not true. Every day, for as long as you live, will be your day and God will be in it, and all will be well. For where God is, life is, and hope is, and reality is. All will be well.”

And so we and all creation shall see and proclaim,

When the LORD restored the fortunes of Zion,
then were we like those who dream.

Then was our mouth filled with laughter,
and our tongue with shouts of joy.

Then they said among the nations,
“The LORD has done great things for them.”

The LORD has done great things for us,
and we are glad indeed (Psalm126:1-4).

This is the God of our salvation.

For God is come, and God is coming. And there will be laughter – long after the tears have ceased. And we, the laughing ones, shall be more than we were. For we will know ourselves in God, and God in us.

My friends’ daughter did not survive her cancer. The day before she died, knowing what lay ahead, she lay in her father’s arms. “Daddy,” she said, “I know this will be hard for you. I know it’s going to feel like a long time before we see each other again. But it’s only going to be a moment.” And it is her faith that has become his faith to endure the long waiting of these Advent days.

And as we wait, we are also called to live.

John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness “as a witness to testify to the light.” The light was Christ, coming into this world; and the Christ was God: God with us, as us, for us and in us.

But how do you testify to the light? How do you explain light to one who has never seen? How do you express what light reveals: turquoise and amber and tangerine; facets of moonlight on a rippling sea?

How do you testify to the light? We become as the moon.

The moon has no light of its own. Its work – its gift to us – is to reflect the sun’s light when the sun itself has moved beyond our view. It’s a different kind of light than what we experience during the day. There are no colors, only shades of gray. Shadows are deeper, the path, less clear. But its light is sufficient to make our way through the night. And it has a beauty all its own.

We, like John, are called to be such moons in the dark. We are the ones who reflect the light of Christ, a Christ now hidden beyond the horizons. None of us has the wisdom of Christ. We don’t have the power to heal the sick and raise the dead. We have no conscious memory of being in the presence of God. We aren’t the sun; we aren’t the light. But we are Christ’s reflection. We are his moon, orbiting this earth in its orbit about the sun. And like the moon in its cycles, there are days when our faith is strong, and the light we cast is enough for others to see by. And there are days when we are merely a sliver – to which I say, “Peace.” Your day in the sun will return.

But unlike the moon, whose orbit is determined without variance or choice, we do have a choice to seek the light where light may be found, and to turn our face away from the darkness. So we seek those who themselves radiate the light of Christ, in whom we see mercy and love. We seek the light in the peace that nature reveals, in the clouds drifting through the fir trees and the gentle light of the winter sun. We seek the light in literature and film where the pathos of the human condition is confronted with grace. Wes seek the light in scripture and prayer. And we can be assured, that our hearts will know the light when they feel its warmth.

Christ has come and Christ is coming. The light of the world has shined on us and our deliverance has been assured. In Christ we have found forgiveness and love. In Christ we have found peace. In Christ we have found joy.

And we are now his moon, shining forgiveness and love, peace and joy into the shadows of the night.