To hear this sermon as preached, press play below:
The Abbey is quiet.
Or no…
Someone else is up. I can hear little sounds: a light clatter of cups and saucers, the clickclick of a pilot light. A wink of jostled spoons.
Yes, someone is up, puttering about the kitchen before dawn to put the kettle on, take down the pottle of honey, count the proper number of teacups. They don’t know I’m here, sitting at the bench to tie my shoes.
I love the unassuming noises of someone in the kitchen.
I love the way the little errands of domesticity don’t break the silence so much as deepen it, like the thrum of cicadas in the summer trees or the lilting sound of children playing.
Why do these sounds contribute to quietness, rather than break it?
I think it is because we recognize these sounds, not with our minds, but with our bodies. The sounds of someone puttering about in the kitchen… if I am aware of such sounds, I am aware not of the sound itself, but of comfort. In these sounds, I can taste the sweet earthiness of the hot tea that is to come.
Everyone else is still asleep.
The Abbey is quiet.
This quiet is not just a lack of sound. It’s not just from the small melody of kettles and spoons.
Underneath it all I can hear the hush of age – feel the presence of the old stones that are built into this place.
There have been Christian communities living on this piece of ground almost continuously since Saint Columba landed on the island of Iona in the year of our Lord 563.
Did you catch that?
Not 1563… but 563
That’s more than 14 hundred years ago!
Of course, Saint Columba’s first settlement on Iona was probably a scattered colony of huts made of wattle and thatch – the kind of structures that quickly give way to the forces of nature and human interference. Indeed, the only evidence of that era thatl remains today is a ditch that skirts the Northwestern edge of the Abbey. The first stone church was, they think, built around 800 AD. Still, if those stones are “talking” to me right now, (and wasn’t it Jesus who said stones themselves will cry out!), I don’t mind stopping, as the Scottish might say, for a wee listen.
We begin the Advent season, this Sunday, with a peculiar passage from the 24th chapter of the gospel of Matthew.
I say “peculiar” because it feels a little odd to me, to usher in the season that anticipates the birth of Christ, by turning our attention to words that Christ spoke near the end of his life.
Why would we do such a thing?
It’s not as if the gospels are lacking in stories that anticipate Christ’s birth – the gospel of Luke, in particular, is a veritable reservoir of birth narratives that we could choose from.
I don’t want to bore you, but the answer to this question has to do with the Revised Common Lectionary which, if you don’t know, is the “official” list of scripture passages that are lined up with each Sunday of the liturgical year.
When it is time to start thinking about writing a sermon, the first step is to refer to the RCL and find out what the passages are. There are several to choose from – a few passages from the Hebrew Bible, a couple psalms, an epistle, and, of course, a passage from the gospels.
Now if you know me – and most of you do – you know that I get kind of worked up when I am told that my creativity must abide by established rules. Creativity, I would argue, is hardly creativity when it is obliged to conform itself to rules that are, as it were, “written in stone.” As a writer, I want to let my ruminations have the freedom to wander about untethered by the requirements of doctrine. This, I argue, is how writing becomes a form of discovery, and it is for this reason that I often find myself drawn to the interpretation that actively flaunts the constraints that are built up around us by the establishment. I am constantly bumping my head up against the establishment. We all know, don’t we, that if there ever was an “establishment” the church is it?! Not this church, mind you, but THE Church, with a capital C. An institution cannot claim to be the sole arbiter of spiritual salvation and prescribe the rules of good social behavior for generations upon generations without becoming rather too full of itself.
I guess that is the irony that I live with. I see great value in the church (lowercase c), but for my creativity to thrive here, in this pulpit, I necessarily must push back against the rigidity that I find in the Capital C Church.
I see that I have strayed… oh my have I strayed… we haven’t even talked about the peculiar passage yet… the peculiar passage, which I will do my best to wrestle away from the establishment!
You might not know it, but this passage has been lifted out of a a very lengthy discourse that Jesus gives to his disciples near the end of his life. He has told them, that the temple in Jerusalem will be destroyed, and the disciples, who are understandably concerned, ask him to give them some more details. Jesus gives them a whole lot more than they bargained for, launching into a series of prophecies of events that will take place before the second coming.
Things like:
nations rising up against nations
famines
earthquakes
false prophets
lawlessness
sacrilege
It all reaches a kind of dystopian crescendo when Jesus says:
the sun will be darkened,
and the moon will not give its light;
the stars will fall from heaven,
and the powers of heaven will be shaken.
And then… only then will
the Son of Man come on the clouds of heaven with power and great glory
So our reading for today begins on the heels of Jesus prophesying about a day when the sun and moon will darken…
Do you suppose the council of theological bigwigs who put the Revised Common Lectionary together knew, in all their wisdom, that this is the Sunday we light the candle of Hope?
You would think they would know that…
But this is not very hopeful stuff!
My guess is that this passage was chosen for this particular Sunday because it deals with the theme of anticipation which is a core theme of the Advent season.
But, I beg your pardon – the anticipation of the second coming is quite different from the anticipation of the birth of Christ.
The “anticipation message” of this passage has to do with remaining alert. No one – not even the angels in Heaven, know when the end will come – only God knows. So if we want to be saved, there is only one thing we can do – remain alert – always be ready to go at a moment’s notice. The faithful people who are ready will be saved.
Jesus refers to two women who are grinding meal together. “One will be taken” he says, and “one will be left.”
The message? We want to be the one taken. We do not want to be the one left.
All of my Christian inclinations rebel against a literal reading of this passage. I don’t like it. I don’t like the way it creates an “us and them” mentality. I don’t like the way it shows zero compassionl for the “one who is left.”
It seems to be more about power than it is about love.
The Bible, unfortunately, has plenty of passages that, read literally, have this effect. And since the “Capital C” Church likes to wield power, these passages are easily used for the consolidation of power.
Oh you? I don’t need to be concerned about you because you are not chosen. Such ideas are very useful for tyrants.
Well, as usual, I’ve worked my way into a pickle. How can I wriggle my way out of it?
Now that you have put up with all my bellyaching about the Revised common lectionary, the Capital C Church and even my complaint about passages in the Bible that I don’t like, you may recall, that this sermon began rather quietly in the dining room of an old Abbey off the coast of Scotland, where I overheard the sounds of someone puttering about in the kitchen…
Why is it, I asked, that some sounds (like the little sounds of someone moving about the kitchen before dawn) don’t break the silence so much as add to it.
My answer was that we recognize certain sounds, not with our minds, but with our bodies. When I hear someone puttering about in the kitchen, I am aware not of the sound itself, but of comfort. In these sounds, I can taste the goodness of tea. Tea with a splash of milk and a wee bit of sugar!
In our scientific capitalist world with its emphasis on data and profit, our reflex is to try, first of all, to know things with our minds.
But don’t we also know things with our bodies?
And with our spirits?
I do not choose to believe in a God who matter-of-factly damns half of the world’s population, leaving them behind in a world empty of love, just because they were drowsy one day while they were grinding meal. If I am required to accept every word of the Bible without question and interpret it only with the use of my intellect, I cannot be a Chrisitian.
Such expectations are the rigid expectations of the Capital C church, that have much more to do with keeping people in line, then speaking at all to the spirit.
I choose, rather, to understand anticipation of God with my body.
Hear the words of Jesus that immediately precede this morning lectionary passage:
“From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near. So also, when you see all these things, you know that he is near, at the very gates.”
Being ready means observing the world for the actions of the Divine. Here it is, at work, not in the guise of vaste armies or thrones in the clouds, but in the delicate flourishing of a tree bravely putting forth its tender leaves into a difficult world.
We know this, not with our minds, but with our bodies.
The goodness of it is in the promise of warm days, long evenings, the pleasant shade to sit in.
And here is the thing – we are better placed to discover these truths with our bodies– to observe the tenderness of God, from lowercase c church because this church is carefully attuned to humility (our place in creation) rather than to power (our dominion over creation).
And this anticipation – the tender anticipation of the fig tree – is, to me, an Advent anticipation. Advent anticipation is not the anticipation of power, but the anticipation of tenderness.
When you hold a baby in your arms you do not feel power. I have said this before in this pulpit, and I will say it again – you cannot hold a infant child in your arms and sentence another person to death.
It can’t be done.
This is the anticipation of Christ.
The anticipation of tenderness.
This is our Hope – Hope with a capital H, that we find in our church – our church with a lowercase c.
Personally… this young man – Rev. Mark – is delighted, humbled, relieved, and hopeful, to be standing, once again, in this lowercase c pulpit, in the company of all of you…
as together, we join, in tender anticipation of the birth of love.
Amen.