Advent 1 Year C

O God, if only you would tear open the heavens and come down.

: Advent 1 Year C

Little Jimmy was laying in the meadow on a beautiful and warm spring day. Puffy white clouds rolled by, and he pondered their shape. Soon, he began to think about God, and then, out of nowhere, little Jimmy asked:

God?  Are you really there?

To his absolute astonishment, a voice came from the clouds saying,  

Yes, Jimmy, what can I do for you?

Seizing the opportunity, Jimmy asked, God?  What is a million years like to you?

Knowing that Jimmy could not understand the concept of infinity, God responded in a manner to which Jimmy could relate.

Jimmy, a million years to me is like a minute.

Oh, said Jimmy.  Well, then, what’s a million dollars like to you?

A million dollars to me, Jimmy, is like a penny.

Wow! remarked Jimmy, I know you are very generous God, so can I have one of your pennies?

And God replied, Sure thing, Jimmy!  Just give me a minute.

Advent, probably more than any other season, calls our attention to the great mystery we call time, and especially to God’s activity within time. Advent marks the beginning of a new liturgical year, and we will, once again, journey through the events of Jesus’ birth, life, death and resurrection as we have so many times before.  Do you ever find yourselves wondering, as I do every year, if this is the year I’m going to get it right? 

Advent, at least for those of us that live in the Northern Hemisphere, comes at a point in time when the views out of the windows of our homes show that barren can be beautiful, and life seems to be hunkering down, and hoping for the best.  

And that describes what we do in the church each advent, doesn’t it? 

We switch to the darker liturgical color blue, the color we so often associate with St. Mary; it’s the color of expectation. We deck the church in the hope of evergreens, and then we hunker down waiting for the promise of Christmas. We know we aren’t really fooling anyone.  We know Christmas will come, and each year, in spite of the hustle and bustle in the secular world, we try very hard to prepare the mangers of our hearts to receive the newborn Christ.

It was a common fear in the ancient world, that one day the sunrise would die forever.  Can you even imagine such a primitive fear? I mean… the sun… it’s going to rise every single day of the rest of our lives, and our children’s lives, and it will even rise on the lives of our children’s children. Why it’s guaranteed isn’t it?

Currently, we live in a fairly fear-free age, don’t we?  And aren’t we glad that the fear of nuclear annihilation has dissipated? 

By the way, where are all those nuclear weapons anyway?

Did you know that about 65 million years ago, a meteorite entered the earth’s atmosphere and that many scientists feel that the wake of its destruction might actually be responsible for the extinction of the dinosaurs?  But that was 65 million years ago.

Most of us, maybe without even realizing it, have lived through a time when other very large meteorites have come as close to earth as our moon.  But the moon is far away.  Big or little, meteorites do almost always seem to miss us, so I guess we don’t have anything to worry about, at least for another 65 million years or so… right?

And all that stuff about global warming and possible resulting natural disasters, well that’s all just hype. . . isn’t it?

Perhaps we need to admit that fear of the death of the sunrise isn’t as primitive as we might have thought!

If you put those fears up against what we see and hear happening all around us every day or learn from the news:  people addicted to hate, violence hurled at innocent children, wars, reports of cancer, AIDs, heart disease, pain, brokenness, death and grief, the list goes on.  Add these to the fears many of us have about family, aging parents, sick grandchildren or other family problems, and I’m sure each of you could add to this very partial list. . . then, I don’t know about you, but suddenly the haunting cry of the prophet Isaiah to his God, in our first reading this week seems so very relevant.  He cries:  O that you would tear open the heavens and come down.

Oh, that you would tear open the heavens and let in a little light and 

love. Oh, that you would tear open the heavens and come down with a little healing, a little comfort, a little sense in the midst of absurdity.

The Church during the lifetime of St. Mark, who penned our Gospel assigned to this First Sunday of Advent, expected God to open the heavens and send Jesus back to them. They expected this return in a matter of weeks or months. But it hasn’t happened yet, has it? 

Is it because for God, a million years is like a minute. No, I don’t think so. You know what I do think?  I think it has already come to pass. God has already opened up the heavens, and God has given us light and love, healing and comfort.

Jesus has returned, and Jesus will return again and again and again.

People have written countless books providing explanations for why Jesus hasn’t returned even though the Gospel writers seem to think it immanent. On the First Sunday of Advent, we don’t need explanations for why Christ hasn’t returned.  We need explanations for why Christ returns so often, and why we so often miss the return of Christ.

I looked up the word “SECOND” in an exhaustive concordance and guess what I found? I found that it occurs in the Revised Standard Version of the Bible 41 times in the New Testament. And do you know what?  Not once in those 41 times does the word “SECOND” immediately precede the word “COMING.”

In this week’s Gospel Jesus doesn’t say, Get ready for my second coming.  He simply says that his intention is to come to us.

In those days, the sun will be darkened, and the stars will be falling from heaven and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. Then you will see the Son of Man coming with great power and glory.

It’s not a prediction. It’s a promise. 

In the midst of your worst nightmares, even in the midst of your fear that the sunrise will one day die. Jesus says, I will come to you.  I will be there.

This Gospel isn’t about the end of time. It’s about the birth pangs of a new age! This one’s going to be a blockbuster on the Discovery Channel. 

We are standing on the threshold of an Advent; on the threshold not of a second but of ANOTHER coming of Christ into our lives.

Beware, keep alert, be like the doorkeeper on watch.

It’s Advent, and while the snow lies on the ground, and the seeds are dormant beneath the fallen leaves, we light a single candle, the candle of hope. Today can be better than yesterday, tomorrow better than today.

O God, if only You would tear open the heavens and come down.

We live in a breakthrough world.  Astronomers are constructing more powerful telescopes and are discovering new galaxies, and yes, someday we will probably have the capacity to deflect those big, frightening meteorites with lasers or force fields or something. And yes, I have no doubt that one day there will be a cure for Aids, Ebola and Covid, but it won’t be enough. Even with all those breakthroughs, we will still need a breakthrough from God.

O God, if only you would tear open the heavens and come!

God WILL tear open the heavens.  Probably not in the way we expect. God won’t use the special effects of a Steven Spielberg, George Lucas or a Gene Roddenbery. Instead, our gentle God will quietly walk beside us. Nudging us, not forcing us, in the right direction. 

His coming will be more like a baby whose first words are I love you!

O God, if only you would tear open the heavens and come down.

If you listen intently, I think you might hear the clouds parting, even as I write to you.