First Sunday in Advent
Year C, RCL
December 2, 2018
North Fork Ministries
Gospel:
Luke 21:25-36
Jesus said, “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth
distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will
faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of
the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see 'the Son of Man coming in a cloud'
with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up
and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”
Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they
sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So
also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is
near. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken
place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.
"Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and
drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a
trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all
times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will
take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.”
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Happy New Year! It’s the first Sunday in Advent,
the beginning of the New Year for the church. It is
a time to experience the thrill of anticipation -
waiting for the birth of the Christ child. But it’s
more than a waiting game.
In today’s gospel reading, Luke tells us to, "Be on
guard so that your hearts are not weighed down
with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries
of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly,
like a trap.” “Be alert at all times.”
We just left the season of Pentecost – 26 weeks of
green vestments. In the church the season of
Pentecost is also called Ordinary time. But there is
really no such thing as ordinary time. Every day
presents an opportunity to awaken to the life
force that surrounds us. However, in the church
we recognize that we are human and we do fall
asleep and we occasionally need an alarm clock.
Sometimes these alarms go off quite naturally –
when birth, death, marriage, separation, grave
illness occurs – these are wakeup calls. These
events tell us to pay attention – something is going
on that is more important than the routine of the
day. There is no ordinary time. All time is precious
and we dare not squander it.
The spirit of Advent teaches us that we have
something to wait for… and something important
to do while we wait - to practice for what is to
come. To perfect the craft of being human. We’re
not just waiting around for the Son of Man to
appear, we are preparing the way.
The summer I turned 10 years old, I was given a
gift for which many a child has longed and few
have received. I awoke that morning, now more
than a half century ago, to find, tied to the pecan
tree outside my bedroom window - a gleaming
black, Welsh pony. Standing a few hands taller
than a Shetland, but smaller than a quarter horse,
the young filly was chosen to precisely fit my
slight frame. My Dad, cupping my left foot into a
stirrup formed by his strong interlaced hands,
effortlessly hoisted me, onto the filly’s bare back.
He handed me the reigns. Seldom providing more
instructions than he thought necessary, my father
offered me these commandments, “If you want her
to go, nudge her with your heels and click your
tongue. To move her to the right, press the left
rein against her neck. To guide her to the left, do
the opposite. To slow down, or stop, gently pull
back on the reins, and say, ‘Whoa.’ If you fall off,
get back on. And be easy with her, son, she’s
tender.” “One more thing” he said, “when you can
ride this little filly, bareback, at a full gallop, then
we’ll talk about a saddle.”
I’m not sure exactly what Dad had in mind. Maybe
there simply wasn’t enough money for a both a
horse and a saddle. Or perhaps his wisdom was
greater than I knew. Either way, I learned more
that season about waiting and watchfulness, than I
have during any Advent since.
With Dad’s minimal instructions, the filly and I
learned to ride. Together we traversed the
pastures and forests of our land and the larger
ranches of friendly neighbors. We traveled the
lonely dirt roads connecting the distant
homesteads. And riding the trails alongside the
railroad tracks, we both trembled when powerful
locomotives roared too closely past us. We
learned to dodge limb-breaking gopher holes. We
swam across rain-swollen creeks. And as my
thighs strengthened, I discovered that my legs
alone could keep me atop the filly, and I no longer
needed to find a handhold in the coarseness of her
waving mane.
Without a saddle between us, I learned to feel in
my thighs the rise of tension in her back - when a
bothersome horse fly was about to cause her to
buck. Riding together on a hot Texas afternoon,
her sweat mingling with mine told me when we
had enough of the heat. I could smell when she
needed a bath. Her twitching ears, would warn me
of the threatening approach of a speeding pickup,
long before I heard the engine growl.
I was waiting for a saddle, but I was being
prepared for more. I fell off the filly more than
once that summer, but learned that I could climb
back on. I learned to use my senses and to rely on
the senses of another sentient being. But what
really happened, in the waiting and watchfulness,
was an awakening to life.
One afternoon, late in the summer, knowing that
Dad’s truck would soon pass through the gate
leading to our house, I mounted the filly at the
bend at end of the road, a quarter mile stretch
from home. Spotting the truck, our hearts beating
like jockey and Thoroughbred, we exploded from
the starting gates. The filly always ran faster
toward the barn than away, but on that day we
flew. Dad looked up when he heard the hooves
pounding against the road’s hard clay. He pushed
back his hat and smiled when he saw the trail of
dust rising after boy and beast.
Fall came and then Advent, and finally Christmas
morning. Waiting for me under the tree, as
promised, was a fine, hand-tooled leather saddle.
And it was good – the reward that I had awaited.
Maybe even heavenly. But the truth is, I don’t
really remember much about that Christmas
morning.
What I remember, as if it were yesterday, is every
single moment I spent learning to ride bareback
atop a galloping filly. The paradise we are assured
of may indeed be glorious. But the new life we are
promised is with us now, if we awaken to it.
The opportunity that my father, and our Father,
has given us to awaken from the slumber of our
youth, is presented in it’s fullness during the
season of Advent. We are given the chance to put
aside fear and live life expectantly. May we echo
the cry of the Psalmist, “Show me your ways, O
LORD, and teach me your paths.”