Lectionary Commentaries for December 3, 2023
First Sunday of Advent

I’m confused.  

But not by the fantastical language. This passage opens our Advent season with a classic apocalyptic text. Because readers may be unfamiliar with the specifics of this apocalyptic imagery, sermons on this passage might spend some time explaining the genre and how these “end of the world” visions line up with the coming of the Son of Man and with Advent. Apocalyptic literature makes perfect sense to me as an Advent passage, especially when found in Mark’s Gospel. My confusion is not about this language, but about whether or not we have any hope of knowing when the return is going to happen.  

Is it possible to know when this return is happening or is it a fruitless pursuit? Before we answer that question, it is clear from the text that we must be in a time of preparation. The images of the Son of Man coming on clouds are a clear indicator that an end is coming, a new breaking forth of God’s work in this world is on the way. How fitting then as we begin this Advent season together that we are reminded that this time of preparation is not just a pre-Christmas period but a time of recentering in preparation for the return of our King in the here and now. We are not merely planning for a cute little baby to be born in a manger, but also for the recreation of this world when that baby returns full-grown.

It is easier for me to think of Advent as a time to get ready to replay the birth of Jesus than to think of the sky opening and a decidedly older Jesus returning on the back of a white horse. We have routines for Christmas, traditions, songs, dramas, and the like for Christmas, but preparing for Christ’s return is a bit less obvious and much more ominous. Preachers might help us wrestle with what it means to get ready for his return, what stories need to be told, songs sung, actions taken, to get ready for Christ’s return? But still, after the apocalyptic imagery of verses 24-28, I’m still unsure if we can know when this inevitable return is coming.  

The first four verses of our selected text offer a poetic and apocalyptic picture of what will happen “in those days.” While I know that the moon does not give light of its own accord and I could Google the cosmic rationale for stars falling from the heavens, this imagery still serves the purpose of pointing toward some cataclysmic end. These signs are recognizable, so one might presume to be able to know and be prepared for Christ’s return.

The semi-parable that Jesus tells next about the fig tree would seem to underscore the ability to be able to know when the return is happening. The fig tree has indicators of when summer is coming, tender branches and leaves.  In like manner, Jesus suggests, when we see the apocalyptic imagery that is offered in the beginning of the passage we’ll know that Jesus is near. If the passage ended there I do not think I’d be confused, as it seems pretty clear that we can read the signs to know when he’s coming. But the passage does not end there.  

In what feels like a complete one-hundred-and-eighty-degree shift, verse 32 now says that no one knows the day or the hour. We are to keep awake. Stay awake and stay alert so that we can be on guard for Christ’s return. Colloquially stated we are to stay ready so that we don’t have to get ready. This is a call to a certain way of life, a call to a deepening of discipleship forged in the urgency of Christ’s imminent return. This kind of urgency is an excellent way to begin the Advent season, with messages that pick up on this tone and that call congregations to a renewed sense of urgency to live out the Kingdom of God in a world in desperate need of Christ’s inbreaking.

Yet living in a constant state of alert does not sound like a desirable and healthy life, and I’m still confused as to whether we can read the signs and know when he’s coming or if we just have to always be ready.  

Do we have a chance of figuring it out? Or is this simply a declaration to remain in a state of constant alert? If it’s a constant alert, I don’t want it.  It can’t be good to remain in a constant state of tension. Our fight-or-flight reflex is intended to be utilized in limited situations. Our bodies and our minds aren’t intended to remain in that kind of state of intense readiness all the time. Yet here in the text we are instructed to stay awake, to stay alert. We don’t, as the passage suggests, want to be caught sleeping when he returns. But how can we stay up all of the time?  

Yes, I know that this isn’t to be taken literally, yet wrestling with this text includes trying to come to terms with what a constant and steady alert can be. And upon second glance it seems that Jesus’ final story may shine some light on how we can manage to remain alert all of the time.  

In Jesus’ final mini parable, he gives the example of servants working together to take care of someone’s household. Everyone has their job, including the doorkeeper whose job is to watch the door. The reason the household can be ready for the master’s return is because everyone is working together, with their own jobs in community, and together they can stay alert.

The answer is in community. We can remain alert when we are in community. As this Advent begins, may we stress the importance of preparing in community, of watching in community, and of discerning in community as well. Because while I may be confused individually as to whether we can know the signs or whether we just have to be in constant alert, when we live in community, we can figure out how to live in that tension and make our way together through the confusion.

We are, all of us, impure, rags soaked in blood (Isaiah 64:6).¹ We are, all of us, dried up, brown and gold leaves dancing in the wind (verse 6). We are unformed dust churned into mud (verse 8). We are creatures, confronted with death (verses 9-10), hoping for life.

The prophet voices familiar yearnings: if only our elusive creator would show up and fight our battles, earth itself would shift and open to us. The powers we fear would not harm us. “You came down,” remembers the prophet. Mountains quaked before the face of God (Isaiah 64:3).

But now we think we do not see God’s face (64:5, 6). We cry out against the silence (64:12). We feel unable to wait, unable to stretch ourselves, unable to get God’s measure, to imagine the breadth and depth of what God will do, who God is, and who we are to God.

This is waiting at its worst. Welcome to the first week of Advent.

This lection forms part of a prayer of lament spanning from 63:7–64:12. The lament voices divisions and insecurities, guilt and blame. It names distances that seem impossible to bridge, both among the people and between the people and God. The distance between God and people has the shape of sin and anger, guilt and punishment (64:5, 7).

The prophet’s lament has much in common with a subset of lament psalms known as penitential psalms (Psalms 6, 32, 38, 51, 102, 130, 143), and indeed the New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition titles the unit from Isaiah 63:15–64:12 “A Prayer of Penitence.” Penitential laments confess sins out loud in order to begin the work of healing and relational repair. But this lament differs from the penitential psalms in two respects: It lacks the confident assurance of God’s forgiveness and salvation. It also casts part of the blame on God (64:5).²

The prophet prays, “But you were angry, and we sinned; because you hid yourself we transgressed” (64:5 NRSV). As confessions go, this leaves something to be desired. We acted out because you weren’t talking to us. At least this way we got you to come back. We got you to pay attention to us again. Though not very satisfying as apologies go, it holds information God might have needed to hear. A parent who receives such an apology might get mad all over again, or might receive it as a wake-up call and an invitation. They might take the opportunity to figure out why their child thought they weren’t there to listen, and might choose to bridge the gulf that had formed between them.

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down” (64:1). The lection begins with this direct address to God. It is more than supplication. It is exactly an invitation. The penitents have bridged the distance to the extent that they know how. With a half-apology, a complaint, a testimony, a plea. Through their prophet, they invite God to eradicate the distances: spatial divisions, relational rifts, even the ontological distinctions that separate God from humans.

The creation account in Genesis 1 portrays the spatial division between heaven and earth as a firmament, a vault, perhaps something like a hammered sheet of rigid metal. But there are other metaphors for the expanse of the heavens. Two are found in Psalm 104:2, which envisions the heavens both as a tent stretched above the earth and as a garment of light draped around God’s own body.

A clue to how the heavens are imagined in Isaiah 64:1 lies in the prophet’s word choice: The Hebrew word the NRSV translates “tear open”, qāraʿtā, is a form of a verb almost always used for rending a garment. In the cultural world of the Hebrew Bible, rending a garment is a socially meaningful action. It is not an act of frustration or anger. It is rather a visible, bodily expression of grief, lament, or remorse.

The prophet voices the people’s lament, but also dares to invite God to do the same. To rend God’s own garment. To cross the space between heaven and earth, yes. To rip open the cosmic barrier between realms and descend to be with the people on earth. But also to bridge the chasm of hurt and silence. To voice God’s complaint. God’s sorrow. Perhaps even God’s remorse.

A close reading of the lection brings to light another garment that translations tend to obscure: a menstrual cloth (64:6, literally “a garment of [menstrual] periods”). The NRSV’s “filthy rag” simultaneously encodes menstruation as an object of disgust and hides the metaphoric presence of women’s bodies and reproductive processes.

For the biblical writer, the cloth certainly symbolized the people’s impurity. But menstrual impurity was not itself a sinful state, nor was it permanent. In the book of Leviticus it was understood as a normal condition that, for a short time, would exclude one from direct contact with the sacred (Leviticus 15). Understood in this sense, the menstrual cloth is not a metaphor for shame or disgust, but rather for the manifold ways our very humanness contributes to the distance between humans and God.

The prophet prays for us. For “all of us” (64:5, 7, 8). They dare to name God again and again and reveal what it means to be God’s creatures, God’s children, God’s people. They show us where God meets us, in rejoicing, righteousness, and remembrance, yes, but also in sorrow and sin.

For Christians, the prophet’s prayer receives an answer in the incarnation, when God chose to bridge the distances by rending God’s garment, coming down, and taking our humanness upon Godself. A woman’s body and reproductive processes were not a source of shame but active agents in God’s plan for forgiveness, healing, and salvation.

Prayer stretches us, closes part of the distance. We wait on God’s response.

Notes

1. Verse numbering follows NRSV throughout this essay.
2. Joseph Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 56–66: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (The Anchor Yale Bible 19B; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003). http://dx.doi.org/10.5040/9780300261318.0009.CH018

God has seemingly turned God’s face away. So distant, so imperceptible is God’s presence in Psalm 80 that the psalmist concludes that God must be angry with Israel. Why else would God allow the fruit of the vine of Israel to be plucked by others while Israel is left with nothing but “the bread of tears” to eat and “tears to drink in full measure” (verse 5)? Why would God allow the vine of Israel to be ravaged by wild boars, burned with fire, and cut down as though it were mere rubbish? Why would God allow this to happen to one in whom God has invested so much? 

Even as God’s anger seems clear to the psalmist, however, no sin of Israel is evident that might provoke it. The psalmist has nothing of which to repent, but stands confused in the tension between what is known about God’s faithfulness because of what God has done in the past and the current experience of seeming disregard. 

If the preacher’s congregation tends to view suffering as God’s punishment for sin, it may be helpful to point out that there is no sin named here. Given the magnitude of the suffering, one would expect the sin to be obvious if it was present. The reason for some suffering is simply unknowable. Preachers who take this route, however, will want to be discerning with the psalmist’s belief that God’s anger is the source of the suffering. Given the unknown reason for the suffering, in addition to God’s favorable track record, one might be cautious about naming God as the source.

Preachers may want to let the “Why?” questions of their congregation resonate with the psalmist’s, as well as any current tensions between the theology of the congregation and their experience. Giving voice to these things may begin to nudge away any present toxic positivity-infused theologies that disallow any truth-telling that makes God vulnerable. God can handle even our strongest emotions, as well as our interpretation of God’s role in our present plight. If we let these things come into the light, perhaps we can discern them with greater clarity. 

The psalmist not only acknowledges Israel’s present suffering but boldly calls upon God to “stir up your might, and come to save us!” (verse 2b). Three times, while building upon God’s name each time, the psalmist cries, “Restore us, O (LORD) God (of hosts); let your face shine, that we may be saved” (verses 3, 7, 19). 

Though not included in the lectionary, verses 8-16 are helpful for the preacher to keep in mind because they review God’s past mighty acts that ground the psalmist’s faith and make the present circumstances so shocking. God is the one who brought this vine of Israel out of Egypt and planted it in a new, nourishing land. God is the one who tended to the vine with such care that by its great height, even mountains were covered by its shadow and towering cedar trees by its branches; its width expanded to river and sea! Surely, God will not abandon but restore this vine that has been lovingly cultivated by God’s right hand.

Audacious hope is what I find most remarkable about this psalm, which makes it an ideal preaching text in Advent. Israel is walking in darkness due to the apparent turning away of God’s face, plagued by questions of “Why?” and “How long?” that have received no answers, and surrounded by the tears of loved ones and the scornful laughter of enemies. Still, the psalmist is convinced that God can and will restore Israel. 

For even though they do not know where they are going, their Shepherd’s hand is upon them, leading them “like a flock” (verse 1). Even now, they are being “made strong” “at [God’s] right hand.” (Alternatively, the preacher might interpret “the one at [God’s] right hand” in verse 17 to be Jesus, which is rich with Advent possibilities.) Even now, the proclamation of God’s salvation is breaking into the dark surroundings through the psalmist. In anticipation of the fullness of this inbreaking, the psalmist declares, “We will never turn back from you” (verse 18).

With the psalmist, preachers may also give voice to all that God has done and audaciously proclaim God’s salvation through Jesus Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit. Through that proclamation of the gospel, God’s face is already shining upon us, already saving us, already restoring our vision to see the great light that cannot be overcome even as we are still the people who walk in darkness. By the power of the Holy Spirit, the scornful laughter of enemies is being transformed into the joyous laughter of friends. The bread of tears we are eating is becoming the nourishing bread of heaven. The full measure of tears we are drinking is becoming the fruit of the vine that is tended by God’s right hand. 

“Being confident of this,” we preachers may declare to our congregations, God “who began a good work in you will carry it to completion until the day of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:6). 

The consumerist culture in which we exist tends to think of Advent as pre-Christmas, most notably with commercial Advent calendars with 24 gifts leading to Christmas. Certainly, preparing for the arrival of Jesus at Christmas is a significant part of the season, but one look at the lectionary for the first half of this season gives the Latin meaning of Advent as “coming” or “arrival” another perspective.

While the Hebrew Bible and Gospel texts in the Revised Common Lectionary are more explicit on the multiple forms of coming—in the manger, among the poor, again at the final consummation of the world—the assigned epistle readings during this season have a less obvious thematic connection.

On this First Sunday of Advent, the assigned second reading places us literally at the beginning, with the introduction of one of Paul’s early congregational letters. As a skilled rhetorician, Paul follows the rules of Greco-Roman letter-writing in this text. The verses preceding this lection are simple, noting the senders and receivers of this letter. After the standard salutation, Paul continues by greeting the congregation and giving thanks to God for the work they are doing.

Even before delving into the themes of this lection, the preacher could draw on the very genre of the text as content for preaching: just as Paul is at the beginning of his letter and setting things forth for the recipients, we too are at the beginning of a new liturgical year and preparing for what is to come. The rest of Paul’s letter (not to give away the entire story) is about how the Corinthians are (or are not) living out their faith because of the gospel; as we begin afresh the church year, we recommit ourselves to living out our faith because of the gospel.

That may be the reason the beginning of this lection has served as the beginning line of sermons, a custom with which I grew up and continue (with variations) in my own preaching. What is proclaimed in the sermon is a reminder of living this gospel life, a life that is covered in God’s grace and strengthened by Christ’s testimony.

Paul later describes what this life is—one that is free of unnecessary divisions because of the wisdom of the world, for it is “Christ crucified” (verse 23) which is the wisdom that Christians are to profess. The divisions that the Corinthian congregation were facing, and that many of our congregations are facing, originate from forgetting the centrality of this gospel message, one that is to be present in all speech and knowledge.

But what does this gospel testimony mean in the life of the Christian? While the Corinthians think that they have received all the necessary spiritual gifts because of such testimony (which they might, although Paul must remind them of the diversity of such gifts in chapter 12), Paul seems concerned that they are unsure of how to employ them in service to the beloved community. As we begin the journey of the new liturgical year, we must also lean into how we live out in word and deed the gifts we too have received.

Since the beginning of Advent focuses primarily on Christ’s second coming, this text is also a reminder that God is with us and strengthening us to the end. This text provides great comfort and a counter to images of doom and gloom that often accompany descriptions of the “end times.” This is not just “fellowship” (New Revised Standard Version) or “partnership” (New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition) but sharing in Christ, which highlights the intimacy of the beloved community.

December 3 is also the commemoration of Francis Xavier, co-founder of the Jesuit order and a Spanish missionary who brought Christianity to Asia. While some of his practices need to be the subject of critique, he was an early adopter of inculturation and the education of local clergy.  Fellow Jesuit founder Ignatius of Loyola wrote the following in his famous Spiritual Exercises:

God freely created us so that we might know, love, and serve Him in this life and be happy with Him forever. God’s purpose in creating us is to draw forth from us a response of love and service here on earth, so that we may obtain our goal of everlasting happiness with Him in heaven.

All the things of this world are gifts from God, created for us to be the means by which we can get to know Him better, love Him more surely, and serve Him more faithfully.

As a result, we ought to use and appreciate these gifts from God insofar as they help us toward our goal of loving service and union with God. But insofar as any created things hinder our progress towards our goal, we ought to let them go.^[i]

Ignatius’ meditative text mirrors what Paul tells the Corinthians, that God has called us into a relationship of knowledge, love, and service.

As we begin this season of Advent, may we continue in this sharing in Christ, walking the gospel way, and using our spiritual gifts for the building up of the beloved community.

Notes

1. https://www.xavier.edu/jesuitresource/resources-by-theme/first-principle-and-foundation-resources