Advent 2B 2005

Isaiah 40:1-11

Psalm 85:1-2, 8-13

2 Peter 3:8-15a

Mark 1:1-8

“All people are grass; their constancy is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades, when the breath of the Lord blows upon it; surely the people are grass.”

Here’s reality for you; the stark truth about human existence. We, my friends, are grass. Here today, gone tomorrow. No one but God knows the length of our days.

But suddenly, all that we have accomplished in this life, all we have saved up, all we have accumulated….won’t matter at all. For we are grass.

Our sisters and brothers at the Collegiate Presbyterian were reminded of this very abruptly when there new pastor suddenly died this past Thursday. In the midst of Christmas plans, the countdown to their “Walk to Bethlehem”, the news was spread.

Pastor Lang had a heart attack. It takes the air right out of you when something like that happens.

We have all been there. Lives interrupted by the cold, sudden reminder that death will come to us all. Not a very cheerful Advent thought, I agree. But in this 24/7 consumer entertainment culture of ours we need to be reminded. Reminded that things, consumer goods, television shows, even modern medicine is no match for death.

And realizing that, admitting that, sitting with that reality for a moment can make us turn. It can make us re-examine our lives and our priorities and even our gift buying.

The reminder that we are grass can help us see others as fragile too. And then push us to take more care with one another.

The Israelites in Exile were fragile too. They were far away from home, scattered from friends and family: trying to hold traditions together in a strange land.

I imagine many of the Katrina evacuees have felt this way over the past three months: trying to keep family together, to find friends, to stick to routines while living in new and often unfamiliar places. They know how fragile life is. How quickly great amounts of stress can make people snap. How fast the possessions of a lifetime can be washed away.

Being grass reminds us that life is not about being the best or the first or the busiest. The one with the most toys does not win. The one with the most oil takes his place with everyone else.

The playing field is leveled if we are all grass. That is good news to those on the bottom but very disturbing to the folks on top! Every valley shall be lifted up and every mountain and hill be made low!

So how do we live knowing we are grass? How do we live if we take the reality of death seriously? How do relate to one another and to the world knowing we are all fragile?

How can we get in the Christmas Spirit if pastor insists on being morbid!?

Well, friends, we hear hope in the midst of it. The prophet calls out: “Comfort, O Comfort my people…Here is your God! He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep.”

And from 2 Peter: “The Lord is not slow about his promise…but is patient with you.”

Last week we cried to God to tear open the heavens and come down and fix the world, fix our communities, fix us. But we really meant mainly fix those people over there.

And then we heard how Advent is not just about us waiting for God, but God waiting for us. For God is already here, with outspread arms of comfort. With words of hope. With gentle acts of love like a shepherd carrying the lambs…

For at the same time we speak of great things, setting the heavens ablaze and dissolving the elements with fire….we speak of gentleness, of peace, of comfort.

For the grass needs water and shelter and good soil. It survives best in a community, nourished and loved.

That is what God had in mind for the Israelites. But when they stopped caring for each other, when they stopped caring for the alien and the orphan, when the leaders grew corrupt and selfish, the country was overrun and the people scattered.

But now, in the time of the Isaiah text, it is time to call the people back together, to give them a fresh start, a new heaven and a new earth. A new chance to care for one another and hold one another up.

And just hearing the words: “Comfort, O Comfort my people. Speak tenderly…” Just hearing the words is enough to bring new hope. It is enough to kick off a new reality. The words of comfort give us new eyes and new hearts.

We turn around and see the promise all over again. How quietly and humbly Jesus comes to earth, seeking out the grass that is trampled and dry and lost.

And speaking words of forgiveness and healing and hope a new reality begins.

A place where all people are valued and loved and cared for; a place where we are known first and foremost as Children of God; a place were everyone is welcome and there is always room for one more.

We appreciate the gentle power of God all the more because we are aware of the fragility of this life. We revel in the gift of the Christ child all the more because of our Advent waiting. We sing all the louder when we have come home from our own exiles.

We hang on to God’s Word all the more tightly when death seems to surround us.

We live in this strange time, the already not yet of God’s kingdom. We live knowing we are grass yet we are more valuable than sparrows. We live waiting yet filled with actions of mercy.

This is Advent: Yearning for the gentle coming of the shepherd who is already here feeding, gathering, carrying, and leading until righteousness is at home.

And we learn patience in our waiting from a God who is patient with us.

Patient grass waiting under the snow for the coming of the Son.

Waiting together, waiting in prayer, waiting in song, waiting in grief and in joy. But most of all this Advent we wait with hope for the coming of the Lord.

For Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again.

Amen.