Third Sunday of Advent
Isaiah 35:1-10 and
Psalm 146:5-10 or
Luke 1:47-55
James 5:7-10
Matthew 11:2-11
Life has a language.
And scripture has a word for us.
Both lead us to connect with God's word and with each other, both are antidotes to isolation that so easily leads to despair; both are well aware of chaos that seeks to engulf us, but both speak of order that gives our lives a nurturing coherence. Both ask us to do something, and both let us know that although we might control our responses to adversity, we are often not in control of what happens to us. Both ask us to live in hope, and both ask us organize our lives around the blessings we are fortunate to give and privileged to receive.
The word that comes to us on this Third Sunday of Advent is remarkably compelling in many ways. Mother earth doesn't have much to say in Hebrew or Christian scripture. When we hear of rain it may well turn out to be a flood. When we read about a darkening sky we don't take it as an enthralling thunderstorm, but as a sign of the sky's anguish at the death of Jesus. We read of rocks that might weep, of seas that present a barrier that must be overcome if it is to be crossed. The theology of a desert people gives thanks for creation but then doesn't give it much of a voice. We learn from it, “Notice the flowers of the field,” Jesus says, but we don't tend to listen to their voice. Not often does the mother nature we grew up with and learned to love have a voice.
But that changes this week. And, if the truth be told, it changes throughout all of advent. Angels will sing not from a pulpit but from the sky. Stars will point the way. The animals 4H kids learn to love and care for will make their way into the birthing shed. Heaven and earth finally come to a congruity that speaks of life in a voice and vision that asks us to connect, asks us to listen, asks us to perceive the earth. In his remarks about John, Jesus decries those with soft robes whose luxury has somehow disconnected them from the discontinuity of their lives.
Isaiah, however, turns this around in this season of advent in which we are asked to reattach ourselves to the reality of a Word made flesh. I would ask that we move slowly through his prescient words.
Isaiah 35:1-10
The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad,
the desert shall rejoice and blossom;
like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly,
and rejoice with joy and singing.
The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it,
the majesty of Carmel and Sharon.
They shall see the glory of the Lord,
the majesty of our God.
Notice that the little crocus, the first flower that pokes its purple and yellow blossoms through the snow, and tells us spring is on the way leads the way. Its brave example, its utter disregard for weather (it's too cold; there's too much snow; I haven't done a thing for almost a year, wonder if I have the strength to do it again), ignites rejoicing and blossoming in the desert, even brining joy to dry land and the wilderness which is often seen as a lonely and even dangerous place. When Jesus went into the desert we imagine it not to be inhabited by singing flowers, rejoicing land, and beautiful flowers. Quite the opposite. But now Isaiah lets us know that this loneliness, useful as it might be in forging ministry, is not the full expression of life. Life has a language, and the earth itself can speak.
He then moves from the wilderness and shows us how to rejoice, how to sing, how to connect with each other in our churches, our families, and even in the midst of our battles. The crocus led the way, and now it is our turn.
Strengthen the weak hands,
and make firm the feeble knees.
Say to those who are of a fearful heart,
'Be strong, do not fear!
Here is your God.
He will come with vengeance,
with terrible recompense.
He will come and save you.'
Twice we are told that we must checkmate fear. Now we have good reason to fear on many fronts. It is the nature of chronic disease to worsen, not get better over time. It is the nature of war to kill an enemy and destroy a chance for reconciliation. It is for good reason the poor fear for their future when what they need to survive is impossible to afford. It would be complete denial to say “None of this is true, so don't be afraid.”
But instead we have a helper. We are asked to connect with God and promises that God connects with us. We will find that we are not alone. Suddenly the scripture changes tense and moves into the future. The shift is not based on flimsy hope but on future assurance.
Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,
and the ears of the deaf unstopped;
then the lame shall leap like a deer,
and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.
For waters shall break forth in the wilderness,
and streams in the desert;
the burning sand shall become a pool,
and the thirsty ground springs of water;
the haunt of jackals shall become a swamp,
the grass shall become reeds and rushes.
Once again we find ourselves as part of creation. What shall the blind see? Crocus flowers. What shall they hear? A singing desert. How many streams will cross a formerly dry desert? Many. The Jordan River suddenly has friends. And there are ways to travel towards it.
A highway shall be there,
and it shall be called the Holy Way;
the unclean shall not travel on it,
but it shall be for God’s people;
no traveller, not even fools, shall go astray.
No lion shall be there,
nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it;
they shall not be found there,
but the redeemed shall walk there.
And the ransomed of the Lord shall return,
and come to Zion with singing;
everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;
they shall obtain joy and gladness,
and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.
Isaiah's penchant for lyrical expression whets our appetite. But then, in this latter stanza, the Word shifts once again. That is, of course, the wonderful things about scripture. Once you “get it” it moves and we realize our primary perception was simply a glimpse. The presence of paradox let us know we are in the presence of truth.
There is a highway that turns out to be a toll way. If we are unclean, if we do not have our ticket, we will not travel on that highway. I am reminded of the Woody Guthery gospel song,
This train is bound for glory,
this train don't pull no jokers,
this train don't ride nothing but the holy.
This train don't carry no liars.
This train don't carry no liars.
No hypocrites and no high flyers.
This train is bound for glory, this train.
But just as soon as we are glad there will finally be a train whose ticket required some degree of righteousness Isaiah lets us know that there are some fools on the highway known as Holy. The good news, of course, is that not even they will go astray because although errant judgment may have pointed them away from God they will not be forgotten, they will travel that highway too. The connections of advent, you see, are many, many, and still many more. Interestingly enough, we will walk, not run, on that road. It is sorrow and signing that will flee.
Slow down, Isaiah seems to say.
Watch for the crocus.
Listen to the parched earth sing.
Don't write off the faint hearted, help them write a new chapter in their lives.
See the many rivers.
Travel that road slowly, figuring out if perhaps you are one of the fools or one of the wise, knowing that either way this road is for you.
If fear has hemmed you in . . . find listen to creation itself.
It is singing, and you are part of the song.
When we find these words in winter, so much the better.
Larry
I welcome your response to these columns. I may be reached at:
Larry@Leadingcausesoflife.org
Or
Larrypray@gmail.com
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