Soul Force

Advent

Rev. Paul Sprecher

Second Parish in Hingham

www.secondparish.org

December 3, 2006

Today is the first Sunday of Advent in the calendar of the Christian year, the first of four Sundays before Christmas which honor the coming of that which is eagerly awaited. We come to this Sunday from different places in our lives, this year and every year. Some of us grew up with little awareness of Advent as a season, though we were well aware of Christmas. Some, like myself, come from churches which celebrated Christmas but not the season of Advent leading to Christmas. Some grew up in churches which had many rituals associated with Advent such as the Advent candles we began to light this morning—a tradition new in my personal experience, but quite lovely. You may have experienced practices carried over from the more raucous traditions of the medieval church.

The Puritan tradition within which this church was founded generally forbade the celebration of Christmas, so that Channing, speaking from within that tradition, could say on Christmas Sunday that

The appropriation of this day for a festival is not, indeed, a part of our religion. But it is natural, it is human,—when so many of our brethren are turning their hearts and thoughts to Bethlehem,—that we should repair thither with them to sympathize in their pious attitude.[1]

The Congress of the United States was in session on December 25^th, 1789, the first Christmas under the new Constitution, and Christmas did not become a national holiday until 1870. We therefore can’t know for sure when this church turned to the celebration of any sort of Christmas we might recognize.

You may be dreading Christmas and its endless obligations, its commercialism and obligatory family occasions which are dicey at best, or you may be waiting in keen anticipation, with the eyes of our children, visions of wonderful things dancing in your head. Whatever our religious roots, whatever our particular beliefs, whatever our hopes and fears of the season, we gather together this first Sunday of Advent to consider what might matter to us as Unitarian Universalists this year at Second Parish.

Curiously, the readings chosen by Christian churches for this season are largely eschatological—that is, focused on last things—fitting, perhaps, since winter is a time of death in nature, the ending of another year. But it is also a time of new beginnings, symbolized by the birth of the New Year and the birth of the baby Jesus. It’s always the case that when something begins, something else ends. We welcome our firstborn, but our lives as a couple will never be the same. We long for new opportunities, but when they arrive we must abandon other dreams as well. In the Gospel reading for today, Jesus speaks of cataclysmic endings:

[Luke 21:25] "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. 26 People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. 27 Then they will see 'the Son of Man coming in a cloud' with power and great glory. 28 Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near."

So we see that great promise appears in the midst of challenge and fear. This theme is already laid out in Luke’s story of the Advent as reflected in Mary’s Magnificat. We often hear the music at this season with pleasure and hear the message of joy and hope, but listen carefully to Mary’s words:

[Luke 1:46] … "My soul magnifies the Lord, ⁴⁷ and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, ⁴⁸ for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; ⁴⁹ for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. ⁵⁰ His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. ⁵¹ He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. ⁵² He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; ⁵³ he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty. ⁵⁴ He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, ⁵⁵ according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever."

There is indeed great joy for Mary, but not for everyone. She herself is a servant, a lowly one, some translations say a slave, not entitled in any worldly sense to this great honor, but her exaltation also means that others are brought low. Listen again:

“52 He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; 53 he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.”

Robert McAfee Brown tells how people in another part of the world hear this story:

In a South American country where there has been great persecution of church leaders, a number of priests have cast their lot with the poor, living in the slum area of a large city, working at whatever jobs (street sweeping, housepainting) will pay for food and rent, and conducting informal Sunday "liturgies" at which the people comment on events of the week, and the priests relate those events to appropriate biblical passages. One such exchange went like this:

PRIEST: Today is September 12. Does that date mean anything special to you?

RESPONSE: Three years ago yesterday Allende was killed in Chile and the Chileans lost their leader. Now they are suffering repression.

RESPONSE: Allende's death makes me think of the death of Martin Luther King.

PRIEST: Why do you think of the deaths of those two together?

RESPONSE: Because both of them were concerned about oppressed peoples.

PRIEST: Doesn't the day mean anything but death to you?

RESPONSE: Well, today is also the Feast of the Holy Name of Mary. So this day also makes me think of her.

PRIEST: Is there any connection between Allende and Martin Luther King and Mary?

RESPONSE: I guess that would depend on whether Mary was concerned about oppressed peoples too.

PRIEST: Let me read part of Mary's song, the Magnificat, in the beginning of Luke's Gospel: "God has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts, put down the mighty from their thrones, and exalted those of low degree; has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich has sent empty away."

RESPONSE: Bravo! But, Father, that doesn't sound at all like the Mary we hear about in the cathedral. And the Mary in the "holy pictures" certainly doesn't look like a person who would talk that way.

PRIEST: Tell us about the Mary in the holy pictures.

RESPONSE (displaying a picture): Here she is. She is standing on a crescent moon. She is wearing a crown. She has rings on her fingers. She has a blue robe embroidered with gold.

PRIEST: That does sound like a different Mary from the Mary of the song! Do you think the picture has betrayed the Mary of the song?

RESPONSE: The Mary who said that God "has exalted those of low degree" would not have left all of her friends so she could stand on the moon.

ALL: Take her off the moon!

RESPONSE: The Mary who said that God "has put down the mighty from their thrones" would not be wearing a crown.

ALL: Take off her Crown!

RESPONSE: The Mary who said that God "has sent the rich empty away" would not be wearing rings on her fingers.

ALL: Take off her rings!

RESPONSE: The Mary who said that God has "filled the hungry with good things" would not have left people who were still hungry to wear a silk robe embroidered with gold.

ALL: Take off her robe!

ANGUISHED RESPONSE: But, Father, this is not right! (embarrassedly) We're—we're doing a striptease of the Virgin.

PRIEST: Very well. If you don't like the way Mary looks in this picture, what do you think the Mary of the song would look like?

RESPONSE: The Mary of the song would not be standing on the moon. She would be standing in the dirt and dust where we stand.

RESPONSE: The Mary of the song would not be wearing a crown. She would have on an old hat like the rest of us, to keep the sun from causing her to faint.

RESPONSE: The Mary of the song would not be wearing jeweled rings on her fingers. She would have rough hands like ours.

RESPONSE: The Mary of the song would not be wearing a silk robe embroidered with gold. She would be wearing old clothes like the rest of us.

EMBARRASSED RESPONSE: Father, it may be awful to say this, but it sounds as though Mary would look just like me! My feet are dirty, my hat is old, my hands are rough, and my clothes are torn.

PRIEST: No, I don't think it is awful to say that. I think the Mary you have all described is more like the Mary of the Bible than the Mary we hear about in the cathedral and see in all the holy pictures.

RESPONSE: I think she'd be more at home here in the slum with us than in the cathedral or the General's Mansion.

RESPONSE: I think her message is more hopeful for us than for them. They are mighty and rich, but she tells them that God puts down the mighty from their thrones and sends the rich away empty.

RESPONSE: And we are at the bottom of the heap and very hungry, but she tells us that God exalts those of low degree and fills the hungry with good things.

PRIEST: Now let's see, how could we begin to help God bring those things to pass?[2]

This season of Advent is about the coming of change—and change is not always good for everyone or in everyone’s interests. Even the change from war to peace, welcome as we would imagine it ought to be for everyone, can bring unexpected challenges. If peace were to become possible between Israel and Palestine, an outcome for which we fervently hope and pray, especially in this season when our thoughts turn to Bethlehem and Jerusalem, what sacrifices might be required on both sides? What territory might one side need to give up, what hopes and expectations might be shattered, who would be disappointed and who would be elated? Who would be raised up and who cast down? And what change are you anticipating this Advent? What needs to be cut back so that something new can live? Change is hard, even when it’s precisely what is needed. Change means joy, but it also means sorrow.

The stories of Mary and Joseph as we hear them in the two accounts in Matthew and in Luke tell us about two people who pay attention to something new in their lives and in their expectations. In Matthew, we consider the story of Joseph. The Jewish custom was that a girl was married to her husband at an early age, but that they didn’t live together until the appropriate time. The terms “engaged” or “betrothed” don’t quite capture the finality of the arrangement, since you couldn’t just break off the marriage—it still entailed a divorce and potentially a return of dowry, even though the couple wasn’t yet living together and the relationship hadn’t been consummated. It’s hard for us to imagine just how outrageous Joseph’s position was when he learned that Mary was with child. The proper thing to do, according to the Law of Moses, was to have her tried for adultery; but Joseph was not only just, he was also righteous, and so he decided to break off the marriage quietly rather than holding Mary up to public shame. The rules of proper behavior were clearly laid out for Joseph, and he took the gentler way of carrying them out. Then, the rules of the road were suddenly changed on him. Like his namesake Joseph in the book of Genesis, he had a dream which explained what was really going on with Mary. Under the Law, he was permitted to accept a child even if he knew he was not the father simply by giving the child his name—so that their son would have been called Jesus Ben Joseph, Jesus son of Joseph. Joseph paid attention to the sudden change he was faced with despite all the private loss of face it entailed.

Mary’s story is told in Luke, where it is she, not Joseph, who is visited by an angel. It can’t have been good news to be told she was going to have a child out of wedlock. Let’s face it, it’s never good news to learn you’re having a child out of wedlock without intending to. I mean, babies are lovely, but talk about shame and scandal in the family! Mary pays attention, because what she’s being told is fundamentally new, completely unexpected, a declaration that a new order is emerging with her active participation. She, like Joseph in the other story, decides to focus on that one precious thing, despite the scandal it will undoubtedly bring to her and her son. Indeed, rumors of the illegitimacy of Jesus seem to have been widespread among Jewish critics of the Christians for generations. Mary focused on what really mattered rather than on how things would look.

To whom do we need to pay attention? What is trying to catch our eye to let us know that a change could happen if we would let it? Where might we sow peace this season of change? What signals are there out of the corner of our eye, what dreams remain unfulfilled, what hope—our first candle of the Advent Wreath—do we need to nourish in this season of change?

The location of Christmas in this season of the year reflects a deep reality which speaks to us from the earth herself, calling through this season of endings and beginnings. Many of the symbols we use for Christmas—the wreath, the tree, Yule Logs, the candles reminiscent of the Nordic Festival of Lights—are derived from solstice celebrations of pagans who carried them forward when they converted to Christianity. There is some evidence that the early Christians chose to celebrate the birthday of Jesus in late December because that’s when the Romans celebrated Saturnalia, the feast of the Invincible Sol, or Sun. Whether this is true or not, the date is very close to the first day in which the daylight hours begin to extend after shrinking since the summer solstice. It is a time of rest for the creation, and whether we wish it or not, our bodies respond to these rhythms of the earth even as we celebrate the birth of Jesus, something new in the endless cycle of the seasons.

What, then, is new and special about Jesus in our tradition? Channing suggests three particular aspects of the birth and ministry of Jesus that are of significance for us. First, that he was human. Because Jesus was born just like all the rest of us are born, he does not come from another realm but has experienced all of the pains and joys of birth and growth that all of us suffer and enjoy. His diapers needed to be changed, too. He probably even irritated his parents some of the time—we see some rather striking bits of misbehavior in the apocryphal “Infancy Gospel of Thomas,” in which several playmates die and grown teachers cower in fear of the young Jesus—and even the story in the temple about when Jesus was twelve would be enough to drive any responsible parent to distraction. He was very human indeed.

Second, Jesus was born in humble circumstances, so he didn’t have all the advantages that a king or prince would have. That meant, according to Channing, that the full breadth of his character could be brought out against the hardship and opposition he faced in his life and ministry; great advantages would have denied him the means to demonstrate that he was just like the rest of us, indeed, just like the weakest and least advantaged among us. Finally, he says, Jesus “sets at liberty our love, breaks down the prison walls of self, and carries us freely forth into this goodly universe.”[3]

We are beset by many pressures in this wonderful, stressful, hallowed season of anticipation. Let’s pay attention to what calls us. What new thing might be aching to be born in us, in our families, in our church, if only we would let it? What might we have to give up in order to have peace in our families, our communities, our networks of associates, our world, where peace has been missing for too long? What opportunities are there to visit, to feed, to drive to church, to cheer up, to forgive or be forgiven? Advent is deeply rooted in the rhythm of nature but it’s also rooted in personal and institutional traditions. Our task is to own the traditions while enlivening them with needed change in our own lives. Let’s welcome the change that the season offers, even though it’s painful to let go of some of our expectations about how things ought to be. Remember how Mary and Joseph listened for a new possibility which brought them from shame to joy. The tradition said that Mary should be ashamed and Joseph should be indignant, but they gave ear to a new possibility, something unexpected, a promised change. They learned that things could be otherwise, and so can we.

Amen