Stir up thy power, O Lord,
and with great might come among us.
The season of Advent is a struggle. Or rather, it's something of a struggle to discern Advent at all, swamped, overwhelmed as it is by the world's idea of Christmas. (Be warned: Few things switch me into Humbug Mode more than this.) Christmas begins with Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve; until that service begins, it is Advent, not Christmas. And yet each year we have to endure tacky lights and mindless music in shops and public buildings from an ever earlier date. This year there has been a large and hideous inflatable Father Christmas outside one of the hotels in North Street since mid-November. Never in my life have I so regretted the passing of the hat pin.
It is only in places like this that you stand any chance of escaping all that and experiencing something of this most confusing and yet inspiring of the Church's seasons. It is a season that balances upon the knife edge of a paradox. We all know that in Advent we anticipate both the birth of Jesus at Christmas and the second coming of Christ at the end of the world. Advent is the season which most strongly speaks to us of this between-time in which we live, this time of Now and Not Yet. For we live between the birth of Jesus and his coming again in great glory to judge the world.
Advent not only has some of the best hymns, it also has some terrific readings. Very often, the lectionary gives us passages from scripture that focus on the paradox between the Now and the Not Yet, between the often harsh reality of this world and the hope of the world that is to come. For example, take this morning's reading from Isaiah, in which the prophet speaks of the wilderness as transformed by God. It is a passage of vivid beauty:
The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad,
the desert shall rejoice and blossom...
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.
Few of us, I suspect, have any direct experience of the desert, though many of us will have some idea of such places, mediated through books and films and news reports. Desert wildernesses are places of danger and death, to be feared and treated with great care, as much now as in the time of Isaiah or John the Baptist. Of course, we have no need to fear the wilderness, living here in the east of Scotland, on the edge of the North Sea. And yet.
And yet, the wilderness does not have to be an actual, physical place. There will be plenty of people this Christmas who will find themselves lost in the wilderness: an emotional or social wilderness, perhaps; or a financial wilderness; or a spiritual wilderness. It might not be you, but most people will not need to look very far to find someone lost in a desert place. Christmas, for some, will be anything but happy.
Perhaps one of the most watched films at this time of year is that old favourite, 'White Christmas.' And despite the rant at the beginning of this sermon, it is a film I enjoy watching and one I may well put on sometime in the next couple of weeks. Everyone - everyone over a certain age, that is - can hear, in their mind's ear, Bing Crosby singing, I'm dreaming of a White Christmas.'
There's nothing wrong with dreaming. In fact, you could say that Advent is about dreams; you could say that it is good for Christians to be dreamers. Let me explain what I mean. In the reading from Isaiah, the prophet called the people of his time to dream of escaping the wilderness, to dream of a better world, one in which the wilderness and the dry land shall be glad [and] the desert shall rejoice and blossom.
And then, in the passage from Matthew's gospel, Jesus too calls people to dream of a better world, one in which the blind receive their sight and the lame walk, lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear, and the dead are raised up, and the poor have good news preached to them. The very same message is in Isaiah and in this morning's psalm: it is consistently God's message of hope. Both Isaiah and Jesus challenge us to dream what often seems the impossible dream, even - especially - in the desert wilderness of this world.
Of what does this world dream? It dreams of celebrity, and success, and power, and wealth, and beauty. This world encourages the dreaming of dreams that are impossible, not the dreams of Isaiah and Jesus, the vision of God. The world's dreams, by and large, lead not to healing and new life but to greed and selfishness. They lead, not out of, but rather deep into the desert wilderness. On the other hand, the dreams that Jesus encourages us to dream lead people out of the desert and into the places where justice, love and compassion blossom and flourish.
Out there, the tinselly lights flash on and off with their mesmerizing slogans: 'Spend more! Eat more! Drink more!' In here, and in places like this, the steady light of a candle sends out a different message altogether: pray more; listen more; talk more. Pray to God; listen for the word of God in reading and sacrament; talk about the things of God with others who long for a different dream, one that brings light and life to the world, not darkness and death.
With the dream comes a challenge, the challenge of taking the true Light out into the world of false lights. Prayer and scripture and sacraments are the nourishing food for our journey into the waste places that we have created. For if we think that we can receive the word of God and remain enclosed in this beautiful space, we are wrong.
The desert is out there and it is in desperate need of pilgrims travelling through it, criss-crossing the landscape with mind and heart set on God, bringing the light of Christ and the life of God into the dark glare of the wasteland. Make the journey, but do not expect it to be either short or easy. This is no outing for a brief season; this is a life's work. Hear the Letter of James, which this morning counselled patience, patience... until the coming of the Lord, the patience of the farmer awaiting the first green shoots, awaiting the coming of sun and rain to nurture growth and bring forth a harvest.
The journey will be long but, as the old Chinese proverb puts it, each journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. And there is refreshment to be had in plenty: this church, for example, is open every day; the Eucharist is celebrated here every day; every day, here and elsewhere, you can be refreshed and encouraged and strengthened with prayer, with the word of God in holy scripture, with the sacrament of Christ's body and blood.
Advent is a time for renewing our dreams - the ones we share with God; it is a time for resolving to make those dreams become real, make the kingdom of God a little closer. It is a time for us, as individuals and as a congregation, to dream a dream of love, justice and compassion and to transform that vision into reality. Let us think about it, talk about it, let us do something about it. But let us not lose the dream, the dream of light and life, the dream of God.
Stir up thy power, O Lord,
and with great might come among us.
Sermon by: Jonathan Mason