Come, Lord Jesus

A sermon for the First Sunday of Advent
December 1, 2024, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Jeremiah 33:14-16; Luke 21:25-36

Well, happy Advent. If you were expecting it to seem a little more like what we see out and about, you might be a little disappointed today. There are Christmas lights downtown and at Garven Gardens, and everyone is getting holly and jolly. Gifts are on everyone’s minds, and Santa’s at the mall. But here, in the church, the Christmas decorations aren’t out, and they won’t be a for a while. There aren’t any carols. Santa’s certainly not here, but nor is the babe in a manger. And our readings aren’t even Christmassy. Instead of angels and shepherds keeping their watch and wisemen on the way, we get Jesus telling us the end is coming: distress among nations, signs in the heavens, fear and foreboding and shaking; death, judgment, heaven, hell. Happy Advent. 

For those reasons, Advent is a deeply countercultural thing. But it’s not countercultural for the sake of being countercultural. There is a deep wisdom in what we’re doing. Before the celebration of Christ’s birth and incarnation, the church is inviting us to prepare, to anticipate, to expect, to examine, to consider the second coming, to see what needs to be redeemed in us and in our world. Before the lights of Christmas, the church is inviting us to the darkness, and from there to that ancient prayer: Come, Lord Jesus. Amid war and confusion and chaos: Come, Lord Jesus. Amid desolation and fear and despair: Come, Lord Jesus. Amid the brokenness in our lives, the roar of sin, and the threat of death: Come, Lord Jesus, and set us free. 

Advent begins in the dark, and it must. Otherwise we cannot discern the reason–our need, the world’s hope–for the light of Christ. Advent begins in the dark, in the acknowledgment of brokenness and despair, so that our hope might be grounded, not in what we can do, but in the action and justice and mercies of God. Advent begins in the dark, but even there, we stand up and raise our heads, because our redemption is drawing near. 

In that way, we find ourselves in deep connection with the people to whom Jeremiah is writing. They are in exile from their destroyed homeland, seeking to make it in a foreign place. There is brokenness in their lives–the destruction of their home and way of life, deep grief at the loss in their families, despair that anything will ever go back to how it was. And it won’t. The promise of God is not that things will return to how they once were. The promise of God is that something new will happen. 

“The days are coming,” the prophet declares. In those days, those days in the future, those days beyond our knowing, God will act and God’s promise will be fulfilled. Newness, wholeness, healing, righteousness, and resurrection will come. That’s the Advent promise. 

There is brokenness now. There is sin and death now. There is despair and hopelessness now. But Christ has promised to come again, and with him will be justice, and wholeness, and healing. Every tear will be wiped away, and there will be no more pain, for all things will be made new in the light of his presence. Every wrong will be righted; all that is lacking will be restored; and the kingdom of our God, the kingdom of righteousness and true peace, will be established. Come, Lord Jesus. 

But we aren’t there yet. We can see signs that Christ will come again, and soon. The fig tree puts forth its leaves. In the midst of war and destruction, we see reconciliation and healing. In the midst of division, we see Christ in the face of the neighbor. In the midst of hunger, we see Christ give himself in bread and wine. Those leaves, signs of hope, tell us that Christ is, even now, on the move, and one day we will see him coming in a cloud.

When I was in seminary, I spent some time in Haiti. There were already signs of the coming violence that we have seen these past few years: political instability, gang rule, chaos everywhere. I joined a group of undergraduates and we went to the end of the world, a little town called Bois Joli. Pretty Wood, the name means. Despite the name, Bois Joli, like the rest of the country, was plagued by deforestation. Parents could cut down a tree and send a kid to school with the money. What would you do? Honestly, deforestation was probably not high on the list of Bois Joli’s problems. There was deep hunger. Poverty. Drought. Despair and hopelessness. Death. The people sat in deep darkness.

In the midst of this, this group of students and I joined some Haitian agronomists. We visited each small farm and counted trees. The farmers got a check for each tree they hadn’t cut down. But most of all, we counted the berries on coffee plants. The farmers wanted to grow coffee, and even though the climate may not have been the best, we helped them. We counted those coffee plant berries, and we celebrated. The farmers beamed with pride. For them, each berry was a sign of hope, that things just might get better, might be different, might be new. For them, it was a sign that the brokenness around them would not have the final word, but something new and just and life-giving could happen. 

Look around. There is brokenness and pain, in our world and in our lives. We sit in the darkness this Advent and we acknowledge that we need a savior, a messiah, a redeemer. We long for true justice, for lasting peace, for goodness to prevail. We strain to see salvation coming with Christ in the clouds. 

Don’t despair. Like those Haitian farmers, count the small signs of hope around you. Joy springs up, and grace sprouts, and love ever grows, and light shines even in the darkness. And one day–we know not when, but one day–the Kingdom of God will burst out suddenly with a shout, and Christ will come, and all things will be made new and right. Come, Lord Jesus.