Bearers of the Light
Isaiah 61:1-4,
8-11 Ps.
26 1 Thess.
5:16-24 John
1:608, 19-28
Have
you ever wondered how Advent might be different if we lived in the
Southern Hemisphere? I don’t know about you, but there is
something about the bare branches and cold, fresh winter air that
brings out the contemplative in me—and heightens the sense of
expectancy. Something I’m not sure would happen as naturally were
I to experience Advent in Australia.
As I look out my window here in the December Ozarks, all appears
dormant, but beneath the bare, hard ground, a miracle of seeds and
bulbs is in progress. During this season we experience more
darkness that at any other time of the year. And like the
subterranean growth and regeneration of plant life, it is what is going
on within us now that prepares us for the greatest of miracles—the
coming of the Light. The birth of our Savior.
Amid the hurry-scurry of Christmas preparations and spoken and unspoken
expectations concerning the holidays, we can easily ignore the lesson
of the darkness. Stop. Exhale. Be.
Listen. There is a voice crying out in the wilderness.
Calling you. Calling me.
In those long ago Biblical days, John the Baptist was an unlikely
messenger—earthy, long-haired, shabbily dressed–hardly the messianic
prophet expected by the priests and Levites. In fact, they simply
can’t figure him out. In no uncertain terms, he tells them he is
not the Messiah. Well, then, what? Is he Elijah? The
prophet? Highly unlikely scenarios, they believe. Finally,
exasperated, they try to pin him down: “Who are you? What do you
say about yourself?” [v. 22]
Despite the skepticism of his listeners, John lives out his calling—to
reveal Jesus. He says, “Among you stands one whom you do not
know, the one who is coming after me; I am not worthy to untie the
thong of his sandal. ”[vv. 26-27]
And yet . . . and yet. To them, the glorious news of the coming
of the Light is just another voice crying in the wilderness, drowned
out by the din of arrogance, the cacophony of competing visions of the
Messiah, and the clamor of incredulity.
And what of 21st century listeners? Do we hear the voice?
Do we believe the promise? Current-day societal and cultural
shifts suggest an alarming response to that question. In his
article “Toward a Post-Christian Spirituality,” W. Paul Jones suggests
that the sacred is being lost in the secular, that spirituality is
becoming a popular substitute for religion, and that many people have
lost the capacity for mystery and awe. He points to Europe where
atheism is becoming common and to a body of literature recognizing
functional atheism as widely operative. [Weavings, Jan.-Feb., 2009, pp. 7-8]
The rapid pace of modern life, the myriad forms of diversion, and our
dependence on electronic communication devices—all render it
increasingly difficult to slow down and listen . . . really
listen. Many voices vie for our attention: the alarmist
commentators on the news, the shrill hyperbole of advertisements, and
political wrangling that leaves us bewildered.
In such an environment, where, pray tell, does the seeker turn for
solace, and enlightenment? Even religious voices cry out in a
range of divisive imperatives from “Repent!” and “Avoid hell—worship
here,” to “Come unto me all you who are heavy laden.”
We can hardly blame the priests and Levites for regarding John the
Baptist as yet one more pseudo-prophet, when we ourselves have to work
at it to remain spiritually grounded in a world gone mad. But
unlike the usual prophecies of gloom and doom, John the Baptist brought
assurance and hope, coming “ . . . as a witness to testify to the
light, so that all might believe through him.” [v. 7] And so,
this Advent, in the darkness, we await the light.
Larry and I had an experience in Arizona that serves as a metaphor for
the ways our modern world can impede our observance of Advent.
About fifty-five miles southwest of Tucson is the sacred mountain of
the Tohono-O’odham Indian tribe. Located on the reservation, Kitt
Peak is leased to various institutions for astronomical
research. Many observatories dot the mountain top; and with
advance reservations, it is possible to drive up the mountain for a
nighttime tour.
The darkness and stillness there are palpable—the stars are at your
fingertips and the moon supplies the only light. There is an
awesome hush, much like that the shepherds may have experienced on that
holiest of nights. But the research and sanctity of Kitt Peak are
being threatened. Not by Tucson, which has mandated street
lighting that does not interfere with the giant telescopes, but by
Phoenix, 125 miles away. The glare of night lights from that
megalopolis vies with the heavens for attention and supremacy.
In like manner, how often is our own meditative silence and darkness
disturbed by impediments, distractions, and temptations?
In this day and time, it is all too easy to be blinded to the one true
Light; to be deaf to the voice crying out in the wilderness. Thus
it is that we come to the challenge and the gift of Advent— a call to
embrace this quiet time of preparation for greeting the Son and
becoming bearers of His light.
This Advent period of “darkness” offers us the opportunity to confront
the loneliness, grief, and despair within us and to embrace the center
of our being—God. And as the light of that re-creation dawns
within us, we are empowered to carry that light to others.
Today’s readings from Isaiah and 1 Thessalonians provide us with ways
of being beacons for others. As Isaiah instructs, among other
acts, we are to “bring good news to the oppressed . . . bind up the
brokenhearted . . . proclaim liberty to the captives . . . [and]
comfort those who mourn.” [vv. 1-3] Paul’s charge to the
Thessalonians, and to us, is equally clear: “Rejoice, always, pray
without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances . . . hold fast to
what is good; abstain from every form of evil.” [vv. 16-22]
In this “post-Christian” age, as the new millennium is being
characterized, it is essential that the Christ-light shine even
brighter as we carry it to others–in nursing homes, food kitchens,
prisons, and hospitals and in our neighborhoods, churches and
families. We might look upon Advent as a time to recharge our
batteries for that mission.
It seems fitting to conclude with the lesson I learned recently from
the Gospel according to Jack Bailey. Who, you may ask, is Jack
Bailey? He is the five-year-old grandson of my dear friend.
Recently in Kansas City, I had the good fortune to make his
acquaintance.
His mother had taken him to the store to buy one toy for him to play
with as the adults concerned themselves with details surrounding a
death in the family.
I was taken with Jack’s absorption in his plaything—a small action
figure resembling a cross between a Transformer and Aretoo-Detoo with
huge ET eyes. “What is this?” I asked.
“A Wall-E,” he said.
“A Wally?”
“No,” he said with a look suggesting I’d just fallen off the potato truck. “ A Wall-E.”
Later I learned that there was a recent Disney movie “Wall-E!” but
having no children or grandchildren in the target demographic, I was
clueless.
“Tell me about your Wall-E,” I said. What follows is Jack’s
version of species Wall-E, which may or may not be faithful to the
film, but as you’ll discover, that doesn’t really matter.
“Well, you see, he stores sun and that gives him power.” He then
demonstrated how a door opened in the chest cavity. “That’s where
he keeps the sun.”
“So what does this Wall-E do?” I asked.
“Well, as long as he has the sun, he cleans up the planet.” He
moved the appendages and walked the figure along an imaginary line on
the tabletop. After he’d indulged his flight of fancy, Jack
looked up. “But it’s really scary when it’s dark,” he confided.
“How’s that?”
“Wall-E loses all his powers and he falls down. He can’t do anything. He just shuts down.”
“So he needs the sun, then?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s nothing without the power of the sun.”
Jack’s Wall-E depends upon solar power. We depend upon Son power,
stored here in our hearts—a Son bright enough to transform us, through
God’s bountiful grace, into bearers of the light in a broken world.
AMEN.
Laura Shoffner
St. James’ Episcopal Church
Eureka Springs, AR
Dec. 14, 2008
Advent III B