December 4, 2005
(Second Sunday of Advent)

Comfort, Comfort My People

By The Very Rev. Terry White, Dean

• Isaiah 40:1-11
• Psalm 85 or 85:7-13
• 2 Peter 3:8-15a,18
• Mark 1:1-8

(From The Lectionary Page)

At this time of year, I find that three little words often coax a response from a lot of people. Some chuckle, others frown and a few bite their tongues. Intrigued? Those three words are: Christmas Tree stand.

In our household, especially in those days when we purchased freshly cut trees, the idyllic journey, to the tree lot or farm, the time spent choosing the tree, and the return trip home with the tree tied to the car roof, had a warm, fuzzy Norman Rockwell feel to it. . .until it came time to set the tree in the stand. Now lest I get ahead of myself, let me take a moment to pay homage to putting the stand itself together. For some reason, every year I felt it necessary to disassemble the four legs of the stand from the water reservoir, even though a month or so earlier it had frustrated the begeebers out of me getting it reassembled.

Among the chapters of this Christmas-tree-stand epic, one particular year is notable. After trudging through snow in temperatures not breaking 20 degrees, and after having no luck finding what we were looking for, we settled for a nursery tree that cost roughly as much as my first car. On the drive home, in my foul mood, the temptation was strong to change some of the words of the carols we were singing, but for the sake of the children that temptation was defeated.

Once inside the rectory, things got worse. That year the tree stand had a mind of its own, and soon, I introduced the tree stand to a hammer. Once the stand was assembled and we were seemingly approaching the end of the tunnel, Linda Sue and I discovered that the tree’s trunk would not fit in the stand. At this point, I not only broke the 3rd commandment, I shattered it. While prone on the floor, completely irritated with everything in life, and having just become aware that a few priceless Frazier fur needles were now lodged in my right ear cannel, in the midst of all this, the stereo began to play from the Messiah, “Comfort, comfort ye my people.”

That text signals a new chapter in the story of God’s people. To explain the significance of this reading I invite you to imagine yourself as a member of the nation of Israel, but you have never seen your homeland. You were born while your people were held captive in Babylon. The way you have come to know of your real home is by listening to the stories told by the elders, whose fading memories can still recall what home was like. You have also come to love your true homeland thanks to the songs you’ve learned which extol the beauty of the land, the sea and the hills.

Most of all you desire to step foot in Jerusalem, where God must surely live. Like all the people of Israel, you yearn for that day when you are free to go home, to a home you have never known.

Next, imagine what it is like to hear, one day out of the blue, that this desire of your heart has been granted: you are free to go home. The Babylonians, who conquered your people, have themselves been defeated by King Cyrus of Persia, and to further humiliate the defeated Babylonians, all of Israel is set free to return home.

What joy! In a matter of days everyone is packed for the journey home. As the caravan moves through your homeland, for the first time you see the beauty told in song: the valleys, lush after winter rains are in bloom. The air is so sweet you can taste it. And the people sing in their happiness.

And now, the ultimate moment arrives. You are told that just over the next ridge you will see holy Jerusalem for the first time. A part of you wants to run to view the sight as quickly as possible, but instead, you savor each step as the anticipation builds. As you near the ridge, you note that the singing has stopped; in fact, some are sobbing. The view must be so beautiful that people are speechless or brought to tears.

But then you see what they see. Jerusalem is in ruins, having never been rebuilt after the Babylonians conquered it years ago. The people who now live there are not your people, they are squatters who eye you with suspicion. You walk through trash-filled streets that only yesterday you dreamed were paved with gold, and you see countless abandoned, crumbling buildings. This is not the home you had dreamed about all your life; this is nothing like what you had imagined. You stop, take it all in, and you don’t know what to say. Then a single voice rises above the weeping: "Thus says the Lord: Take comfort my people. Let me speak tenderly to you, Jerusalem."

And with all your being, you listen intently for God, who says: "You have served your term, and paid your debt. Put behind you the years in Babylon, for the slate is clean. From this day forward, together, you and I will sow the seeds of a new vision. I am your God. I am present everywhere, you are my people and Jerusalem is my home. Let us get to work."

You ponder these words. And you think to yourself, "What was, was. What will be, depends upon what I will do with God."

The voice about the weeping continues. It is once again Isaiah who cries out: "In this wilderness, prepare the way of the Lord. Make straight in the rocky desert a highway for God, every ancient valley will be filled and built up into a majestic mountain, and every ancient mountain will be made low—because God can and will make it so."

Isaiah is not just a possibility thinker. He does not deny the frustration that will surely follow. He knows that sometimes one’s best efforts will fade like a flower and wither like grass. Being the good and godly leader that he is, he tells you to expect rough times to come.

"But," Isaiah says, those sad and hard times will not prevail, because "the word of our God will stand forever." Those words echo all around you, because the sobbing has stopped. "The word of our God will stand forever."

You turn to face the people of Israel, and you see a wave of faith sweep through the crowd. Faces soften, backs straighten, and the people remember that they are now free, and though their past was destroyed, they are free to build a present and a future, with God.

Once again you gaze at Jerusalem, and take it all in, and think, "Isn’t it beautiful?"

Isaiah has one more thing to say, but first, he begins to clap. The rhythm builds as others join him, and then he sings: “Get up to a high mountain, herald, shout out the glad tidings, lift it up people, with your strong voice: You are people of Jerusalem—no longer of Babylon—of Jerusalem! Do not fear. Our city is wrecked, but not our faith. Nothing has been taken that cannot be rebuilt. And by our resolve we shall say to all the world: "Look at us and see what God is like!" And Isaiah concludes with a promise: "because God is our shepherd, we can do the impossible." (Adapted from H. O’Driscoll, The Word Among us, Year B Vol 1, pp 16-19)

There may not be better words for the Church to hear today, and they are certainly no better words for us to proclaim to this city. Both in and outside of the Church people crave to hear a voice that is comforting and tender, but which also inspires and stirs them to action. While cities on the Gulf Coast wait to rebuild, while neighborhoods in this city reel from violence and poverty, the possibility of giving into to despair and giving up in frustration, of being too weary to act, is very real. But then, an Isaiah sings out, “Comfort, comfort my people. Watch what you and I and God will do.” The Church. The Episcopal Church. This Cathedral. We are Isaiah.

The promise of Advent must energize us. There is a Jerusalem that we must build right outside these doors. It will not be the one we imagined, nor the one we have known in past years. The newly rebuilt Jerusalem must be open to all, with room for all, with equal justice and opportunities for all, and we must spare no expense or effort to build such a city.

The prophet says the word of our God stands forever! Let our mission say so as well.

 

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In the Wilderness

  by The Rev. Canon Linda Yeager, Canon Deacon

Have you ever been lost? Well, sure you have. We all have. In fact, I got lost one day in Dillard’s. Oh, you say, that must have been interesting. Yes, indeed. Actually, I was in the Dillard’s at Oak Park Mall. It was the first time that I had ever been at that particular mall, so after I parked my car and entered the Dillard’s store from outside, I carefully noted what department I was in. I clearly observed that it was the men’s section and there was a rather extensive display of sweaters. Well, I shopped for several hours, which is easy enough to do at Oak Park, and when the time came to leave, I located Dillard’s and began the search for the men’s sweater department. Up and down the escalator and from corner to corner of the massive store I went. I found the shoe department and the women’s clothing and the cosmetics and the lingerie, but no matter where I turned, I could not find any exit that looked remotely familiar. Well, I thought, this is ridiculous. There has to be a men’s department; I’ll look again. After another thorough search of this vast store with no luck, I began to feel a sense of panic. The whole experience began to take on a Twilight-Zone feeling. What happened to the men’s department? I felt totally lost and helpless, isolated from all those confident shoppers who knew just where they were and how to get out of where they were. Well, most of you have figured out my problem by now, but I did not know that there were two Dillard’s stores in the mall. Eventually, I asked someone to direct me to the men’s sweaters, and she explained that I needed to go to the other end of the mall to the other Dillard’s store. I’ve never forgotten that experience because in the midst of all that seemed normal to others, something just wasn’t making sense to me. I felt isolated and helpless. And I wonder why I waited such a long time to seek help.

We have all been lost in a number of ways I guess. We have been lost in a sea of paperwork when trying to figure out our taxes. We have been lost when trying to locate someone’s address in a strange town or in our own town for that matter. We have been lost for an idea for a gift for a loved one or a not-so-loved one. We have been lost in music and lost in prayer. We have been lost in trying to make a decision. Lost is a word we throw around a lot, but the lost I’m talking about tonight is a spiritual kind of lost, the wilderness experience. I guess most of us have experienced that kind of lost, too, and it feels a bit like my lost-in-Dillard’s escapade.

When we are lost in the spiritual wilderness, we are unsure of who and where we are, nothing seems to make sense, and no matter where we turn, everything seems unfamiliar; even the familiar seems unfamiliar. At the bleakest point, we feel that God has abandoned us or, worse, God doesn’t exist. We are at our loneliest. Fear and hopelessness are our companions, and the situation feels grim indeed.

It was in this kind of lost that Isaiah, in today’s Old Testament passage, spoke to his people. Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem . . .” At the time this passage was written, the chosen people were in the darkness of exile in Babylon. They were captives in a foreign land and they were lost indeed. “A voice cries out: In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God.” God would come to his people in the wilderness and guide them home. God would find them because the wilderness is where God’s people were.

There’s an old proverb that says that you don’t find God in the good times. As unfortunate as this saying is, it nonetheless has a ring of truth to it. When things are going well, when we are sure of where we are and where we are going, when health and employment and family are all strong and vital, we may offer thanks, but the search for God, the longing for comfort and security, for acceptance and peace comes in the wilderness.

The sense of our own mortality—the withering of the grass and the fading of the flower—confronts us when we feel most alone. Isaiah says, “The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand forever.” The security we long for comes not with any earthly promises, but only through God’s holy word and God’s promises.

The psalmist in Psalm 85 speaks of this when he says that God “is speaking peace to his faithful people and to those who turn their hearts to him.”

Mark alludes to the earlier Isaiah reading in the very first chapter of his gospel: “As it is written in the prophet Isaiah, ‘See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way; the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight . . .’” John the Baptist did preach in the wilderness, offering a baptism for the repentance of sins. This baptism with water was a familiar one to the Jews who participated frequently in ritual baths. People flocked to hear John and to be baptized by him. What was it about this person that attracted them? After all, he lived in the wilderness, and he was a rather odd fellow, to be sure, who dressed strangely and took nontraditional nourishment. And yet, people followed him to the light, to Christ.

Please go with me, in a manner of speaking, into the woods. Maybe we are going hunting, or maybe we are just taking a walk and enjoying the coolness of the shaded area. For whatever reason, the day wears on and we go farther and farther into the depths of the forest. Suddenly, we realize that we have departed from the path so far that we no longer have our bearings, nor are we able to find our way out of this wilderness. We begin to feel hungry and thirsty and frightened. Eventually, the starless night comes, darkness descends and we are totally lost. But, just about the time that we begin to panic and think that we are never going to find a way out, we spot a small light at a distance. At that very moment, we felt comforted. The small beam of light lifts the helplessness and hopelessness that we have been feeling. We commence walking toward the light, and as we grow closer and closer, the light becomes brighter and brighter. Finally, we find the source of the light. It comes through the windows of a small cabin tucked away in a great thicket. Amazingly, as we draw even closer, the light expands and shines in every direction, and we can clearly see the path that leads out of the wilderness.

Well, if that’s not an obvious story, I don’t know one. But the point it makes is that, just as John the Baptist guided people in the wilderness toward the light that is Christ, just as we could see more clearly the closer we moved to the light in the forest, we can find and follow God, even when we are most lost. God is constantly looking for us and the light is always available, but it is only when we are doing the looking that we finally find God; the light shines in the darkness and the darkness does not overcome it. God’s love shines through the pain and grief and loss that we experience as we await the day of the Lord’s coming.

Looking for God, I think, is a bit of a process, and we might consider several steps. First, we acknowledge that we are not in control, a difficult task in this culture where control is possible in many areas of our lives. We cling to control as if it will keep us alive forever, and giving up that sense of being in charge feels risky, doesn’t it? Next, we must be ready to give in to God, that is, we must allow ourselves to be loved by God. I find this step to be one of the most difficult of all, for most of us don’t feel very lovable. But when we let go of our unworthiness and let God love us anyway, we find that we are freed to love others who aren’t so lovable either. Then, we must attempt to open up the hard places in our hearts to let God in. This means giving up our resentments and self-righteous feelings, the tight knots which keep the past hurts and slights alive. Along with this part of the process, we need to accept ourselves as forgiven. This means that God forgives us even as we have difficulty forgiving others. When we let God both love and forgive us, our eyes are opened and we then recognize Christ in the suffering of those around us, and we care and respond.

If we are able to work through these tasks, then the light of Christ will glow within and without us, we will see clearly the way of the Lord, we will offer thanks for the great gifts that God has given us, and we will understand that being lost, whether in a department store or a in forest or in grief or anger or loneliness or sadness or frustration—that being lost is the beginning of being found.