The Sermons At Calvary
By The Reverend Rhonda Lee
2 Advent Year B
Isaiah 40:1-11, Mark 1:1-8
“Comfort My People”
Several months ago, a member of
this congregation handed me a meditation on aging that he had read and
liked. “Keep that and use it in a
sermon sometime,” he said. I
appreciated the gesture, because being a preacher is a bit like being a
stand-up comedian: we’re always looking for new material. The writer of the meditation, whose name I
don't know, strikes a nice balance between different emotions. There is vanity: “I sometimes despair over
my body: the wrinkles, the baggy eyes, skin spots...and the sagging butt.” And there is the joy that comes with freedom:
“Whose business is it if I choose to read until 4 a.m., and sleep until noon?” The author is even able to put the tragedies
of her or his life into perspective, able to look back on heart-breaking events
and remark that “broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and
compassion.” Remembering friends and
family who died too young, the writer says, “I am so blessed to have lived long
enough to have my hair turn gray, and to have my youthful laughs be forever
etched into a deep groove on my face.”
The writer finds comfort in things that we don't always consider a comfort,
like gray hair and wrinkles. A long
life has put things into perspective.
But before the writer of that
meditation was able to find comfort in challenges like gray hair and wrinkles,
first he or she had to go through hard, heart-breaking times. When we’re going through those times of
grief and loss, there is only so much we can do to comfort ourselves. Any illusions we might have had about being
completely self-reliant break down, and we see clearly how much we need God and
other people.
The prophet Isaiah provided words
of comfort to his people at a time when they could hardly believe there was any
good news left in the world. When
Isaiah spoke the words we read today, the people of Israel had been in exile in
a foreign land for a couple of generations, and they may have given up hope of
ever being able to return home. They
may have believed that God had abandoned them forever, that the sins that had
led them into exile in the first place would never be forgiven. But then Isaiah tells them that no, God has
not forgotten them. No matter what they
may have done, God still loves them: “Comfort, O comfort my people...Speak
tenderly to Jerusalem and cry to her that she has served her term, that her
penalty is paid...Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people
shall see it together...”
Centuries later the evangelist we
call Mark remembered Isaiah’s words – and a few words from the prophet Malachi,
too – when he painted his picture of John the Baptist crying out in the
wilderness that people everywhere should be on the lookout, because God was
about to do something new. That new
thing would show the world just how deeply in love God is with the human race,
how determined God is never to abandon us.
This year, many members of our
Calvary family have felt like they were in exile, crying in a wilderness of
loss and pain, struggling to hear a message of comfort. Some of us have been widowed this year. Some of us lost friends: maybe someone we’d
known for decades, maybe someone we hadn’t known that long but whom we deeply
loved. Some of us went through the loss
of a job, divorce, illness, or injury.
Some of us worried about friends and family on the Gulf Coast, or in
Iraq or Afghanistan. Some of us
re-arranged our lives to make room for Katrina evacuees coming to Louisville
for a while, some evacuees came to worship here, and some of us struggled to
figure out the best way to welcome veterans who returned home with wounds
visible and invisible.
Anyone who experiences any of these
things may feel as if they have lost a part of themselves: the voice that was
at the other end of the telephone for years, the warm presence on the other
side of the bed, the taken-for-granted ability to walk, talk, or eat. Some of us wondered, like the Israelites in
exile, if we could have done more: worked harder, been kinder, said “I love
you” more often. Regrets can be one of
the hardest things about grief. Grief
can be mixed with guilt, too, especially when, for some reason, a loss makes us
freer, more able to choose what we want for ourselves.
“Comfort my people.” Both Isaiah and Mark make promises to us:
they promise that there is comfort to
be had, there is a balm in Gilead,
morning will dawn after a long, dark
night. Regrets and guilt feelings spin
us around to look backward, but the prophets of comfort gently ask people in
exile to turn our faces again to look forward.
These messengers point the way to God, who loves us like a mother or a
father: with a deep, fierce, protective love.
And they invite us to offer God's comfort to each other, since our hands
and hearts are the only hands and hearts God has on earth right now.
The comfort we offer doesn't have
to be anything fancy. A while ago one
friend of mine, who lost a dear companion fairly recently, told me “I just wish
people would ask me once in a while how I am.
It's lovely to get a sympathy note that's full of emotion, and I
appreciate that. But then when you see
me, just ask me how I'm doing.”
It's as simple as that. The best comfort we can provide may be just
to sit with someone, go with them to a movie or to lunch, help them sort
through a loved one's belongings, just be
with them. We can put to rest our
worries about not knowing what to say, because there really may not be much to say. We can say, “I'm so sorry,” “It's good to see you,” “I'm praying
for you,” “How are you?” Beyond that,
the most important thing is to be willing to open our hearts and ears to listen.
Even if a grieving person cries out, “Why? Why did this happen?” chances are, they're not looking for an
answer – at least not right then.
They're screaming out their grief and their pain to God – and God can
take it. In our Christian community, we
are not asked to be therapists, or counselors, or a support group. Those are all very useful tools that I can
recommend from my own experience. But as the church, we are free just to be
faithful companions, whose loving-kindness reflects the love that God feels for
each one of us, especially when we are in need.
These frantic days of preparation
for the holidays don't really encourage us to sit quietly, alone or with anyone
else. What we call Advent, the larger
culture calls “shopping days before Christmas.” The consumer culture tells us that we have to be joyful at this
time of year, and it tells us that joy can be bought, for the right price. Our faith sends a different message,
though. Our church calendar builds in
periods of reflection – Advent, Lent – before festivals of joy – Christmas,
Easter – a season of darkness before we move on to a season of light. The dark time can be difficult, and it can
be a period of growth, of gestation. We
see that most clearly in Advent, when we're waiting along with Mary and Joseph
for the baby to be born. Just as a
baby's development can’t be rushed, and a child born prematurely can be in
danger, we can’t rush the natural progression of grief. Healing takes time, and the sadness we push
deep down inside us today will come out in some other form tomorrow. You and I know, just like the author of our
meditation on aging knows, that each one of us will grieve sometime. But even while we grieve, we can rejoice,
quietly, in the fact that God has not left us without comfort. Each of us is part of a community of faithful
companions; we have been given food and drink for our journey through the
wilderness, and we have Christ’s presence with us, now in part, with full and
joyful communion to come later.
“Comfort, O comfort my people, says
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.” Amen.