Advent 1 in the RCL, Isaiah 64:1-9
Whew. Mark is like a breath of fresh air after a year of Matthew. Like an arrow that sinks far into its target, where before we had only a baseball bat, Mark aims and strikes more cleanly than Matthew. "What I say to you, I say to all: Keep awake." So clear, so crisp. "Keep awake."
And with those words, Advent begins. It's the start of new year--in fact, happy New Years to you all. The old green season wound its way down, growing older and colder. I often think years are like stars--stars like we learned about them in science class in junior high. The year/star begins in dissipation, elements circling. After the ignition, the star lives a long life, having some moments of excitement or danger but mostly shining bright. Eventually, the year/star fades, growing cooler. Most times, the star/year quietly collapses and dies, becoming a white dwarf--around forever, illuminating its future neighbors forever, but only as a memory. Occasionally, stars and years explode, wreaking havoc on everything and everyone. Either way, stars and years come to an end.
Here we are at the beginning. The concerns of a year ago have changed--new politics, new economic turmoil, less money. These little strings of matter, together with our stories, will combine together in a new star, a new year, a new story. Today truly is the first day of a new world.
Our text in Isaiah seems to be a in a similar place to us on this day. Standing at the edge of something gone, something dying, the writer reflects on the cycle of the years, the births and deaths of ages. The writer is thinking and writing about the ages past, comparing them to the 'now,' and turning to God to ask about the future. What exactly is the writer asking for? Let's go there in one moment.
But first let's notice the outstandingly beautiful language of this passage. It's full of extended metaphors, powerful images, and intriguing analogies. It's truly quite lovely, and it looks like poetry because it is. Poetry rewards close examination, so let's us see what our Scripture is calling to us today.
Our passage begins with exclamation: O! Come down! The call is passionate--get down here, God! The imagery that follows describes the years long past--back in the good ol' days, says Isaiah (or the writer we accept as Isaiah for literary conventions--not much difference, really), back in the good ol' days, God, you would come down and mountains would melt, the heavens would be torn. This is dramatic imagery for someone who never saw a movie with modern special effects--we're used to the idea that we can see on screen a mountain melt, or heavens torn, or nearly anything at all. But for this writer, these images are meant to stand out, to call attention, to shock.
The writer continues, talking about how in those old days, ('olam in the Hebrew--the age long past, or eternity--it's got those kind of connotations), God would come down, and you'd know it not only by the incredible geographic phenomena but also by the fact that God's enemies would be smashed. To be historical a moment, perhaps the writer here in the third part of Isaiah is thinking of the stories of Exodus and Deuteronomy--those stories of God's dramatic personal action in the world. The passage has a certain resonance with that kind of deuteronomic theology--God protects those following God's way, but smites those not following that way. In an interesting change from Deuteronomy, Isaiah here seems to think this blessing/curse extends not only to Israel but instead to everybody, building on Deuteronomy a bit.
Isaiah is longing for those old days when God was obviously taking care of things. Because in the 'now' for Isaiah, God isn't very evident, or evident at all. And without that blessing promised in those early stories of Exodus and Deuteronomy, everything has become worthless. The writer's image of a cloth is particularly striking--everything has become so that it has no more worth a dirty dash rag. Without God's light, the 'now' of Isaiah has become a place of 'iniquity,' of badness, and that badness is now reaping its natural reward: more badness.
And so Isaiah calls out at the end of our passage: you are still the potter, the one in control, the shaper, the artist, the visionary. We are still matter, mud, dirt. Don't always be absent--come back. Come back for everybody.
If this all seems very far away and esoteric, it doesn't need to. Isaiah's 'now' seems a good bit like our 'now.' We too remember when God was active in the past. We, too, smile when we remember meeting God at church, outdoors, at summer camp, in the mall, driving down the road, giving our time at a nursing home, singing Christmas carols, spending time with our families. We remember those times with hope, when God's purpose seemed obvious. Or we can even think further back. We hear stories every Sunday and during the week of God's miraculous actions--arks and floods, touching and healing, cancer and remission, people and reconciliation.
And we, like Isaiah, see the lost-ness of us all. Seeking entertainment above meaning, pleasure above friendship, my interest at the cost of all others, we try to be good and do not succeed. Not because we don't try. And we say to ourselves: you know, I wish it were the good old days, when good was obvious, when God was here! When mountains melted, you could tell what was what--but these days, who knows? Is it better to buy a hybrid car for fuel efficiency, or bad because of components in the battery? Is it better to give my money to refugees in my neighborhood, or to refugees in Sudan?
And so, we enter the place of Advent once more, the place of beginnings, the place of darkness, the place of longing. That's the problem, I think, with having the new year begin in our culture with a giant electronic ball on top of a building in New York. Beginnings aren't like that. Beginnings are dark, confusing, longing-filled places. They can be a great deal of fun, and they have a great deal of hope, or they can be quite scary. In any way, beginnings don't really feel like light falling to earth, the image on January 1st in New York. They feel more like pregnancy--not even sure something is going at the start, followed by sickness, inconvenience, discomfort, and the possibility of incredible joy.
As we hear these words from Isaiah this week, or on Sunday, they call us back to be mindful of the beginning of things. It's time to start afresh, anew, again, and any other a---- word you can think. Isaiah reminds us that we don't begin something new out of whole cloth--we build from what's around us, the past we have, the stories we know. Isaiah reminds us that even if 'now' feels pretty ho-hum and distant, this does not mean God has abandoned us forever. Even now, God has a plot and a plan and some thoughts about us, but God's new beginnings with us don't fall like a ball out of the sky. They begin slowly, with hints and nudges and a great deal of sitting. What is God beginning in your life? Where has God seemed absent? What good old days do you wish were back in your heart?
Mindfulness of our beginnings is central connecting theme between us and Isaiah this week.
But I would add one other. As Christians, we believe that God heard Isaiah's prayer--took it quite seriously, in fact, and became as obvious as God could be in becoming human, in becoming Christ. Now, Isaiah would never have imagined that this would fulfill the prayer he offered--Isaiah is clearly imagining the ground swallowing people up, great pestilence, pillars of fire by night, and so on to lead everyone to a better way of life. Yet, as Christians, we see Jesus as the very surprising answer to this plea.
What we might should notice is how surprising Jesus is as an answer to this plea. Isaiah wanted God's presence, but he never imagined God would do that. It wasn't on the radar or the calendar. And yet, I'd have to say, it fit the bill pretty well.
So, this Advent, as we think about what we wish God were doing; as we think about what our Christmas MUST be or it won't be any good; as we think we know exactly what God is doing in our world; perhaps we should recognize our deep kinship with Isaiah. We, too, are destined to be surprised. Where is God beginning something new in your that is totally, utterly surprising, and not at all what you thought you wanted?
So, as we mind our begins and consider surprise, let me say: have a blessed Advent.
